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THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


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' .  «    •'.    ••-  '    -  ■•       m'Tr     .      %  •• 


LEJDTEKS 


TO 


THE    JONESES. 


s. 


BY 

TIMOTHY    TITOOMB, 

AUTIIOE   OP    '•  LETTERS  TO    TOUNQ   PEOPLE,"    "OOLD   FOIL,"   "  LESSOXS    IX    LIFE," 

ETC.,  rro. 


NEW  YORK: 

CHARLES    SCRIBNER,    124    GRAND    STREET. 

1863. 


• 

...■?;_.=>^- 

•■■-#*$^' 

• 

EjfTBBBD,  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the 

year  1S6S, 

BY  CHAELES  SCRIBNEE. 

In  the  aerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  United  States  for  the  Southern 

District  of  New  York. 

JOHN  F.  TROW. 

Ttnymr.  axd  sisuEOTTprK, 

60  Greens  streeC 

H 


n  I 

1 1 


PREFACE. 


There  is  pretension  in  all  works  of  a  didactic 
nature,  while  in  those  which  are  not  only  precep- 
tive, but  critical  of  character,  motive  and  life,  there 
is  an  assumption  of  superiority  on  the  part  of  the 
author  which  can  only  fail  of  being  oflfensivc  by 
being  ignored. 

The  writer  of  the  Titcomb  Scries  of  Books  has 
always  felt  this,  and,  however  little  he  may  have 
concealed  himself,  has  hidden  his  head  under  the 
shadow  of  a  no7}i  de  plume.  Tlic  only  apologies 
which  he  oiFers  for  appearing  as  a  censor  and  a 
teacher,  are  his  love  of  men,  his  honest  wish  to  do 
them  good,  and  his  sad  consciousness  that  his  nom- 
inal criticisms  of  others  are  too  often  actual  con- 
demnations of  himself. 


Since  the  appearance  of  the  author's  "Letters 
to  The  Young,"  in  1858,  lie  has  received  every  year 
a  large  number  of  letters  from  their  readers,  asking 
for  counsel  in  a  wide  variety  of  specific  cases. 
While  the  present  volume  was  not  intended  as  a 
reply  to  these  letters,  it  was  naturally  suggested  by 
them.  The  author  has  attempted  in  it  to  present 
and  criticise  certain  types  of  character  and  life,  and 
to  furnish  motives  and  means  for  then-  improvement 
and  reform.  In  order  to  do  this  successfully,  it 
was  found  necessary  to  deal  with  personalities,  to 
which  it  was  desirable  to  give  "  a  local  habitation 
and  a  name;"  and  as  the  Smiths  had  been  some- 
what overworked  by  the  literary  guild,  as  represen- 
tatives of  the  human  race,  it  was  determined  to 
address  the  Joneses  of  Jonesville,  who,  though  rep- 
resented in  the  well-known  firm  of  Brown,  Jones 
&  Robinson,  were  comparatively  fresh  in  the  field, 
and  endowed  with  the  average  amount  of  "  human 
nature." 

Now,  if  the  reader  will  so  far  favor  the  author 
as  to  suppose  that,  when  ^  young  man,  he  taught 
the  district  school  in  Jonesville,  "  boarding  around  " 
according  to  the  primitive  New  England  fashion, 
that  he  has  kept  himself  acquainted  with  the  lives 
and  fortunes  of  his  old  friends  and  pupils  there, 


Preface.  7 

that  they  have  known  something  of  him,  and, 
through  an  officious  representative  of  tlie  family, 
have  requested  him  to  write  them  letters  for  the 
public  eye,  which  he  had  no  time  to  write  for  their 
private  reading, — I  say,  if  the  reader  will  suppose 
all  this,  he  will  supply  all  the  necessary  machinery 
of  the  book,  and  the  writer  will  have  his  justifica- 
tion for  the  direct  and  homely  talk  in  which  he 
indulges  toward  the  family. 

Springfield,  October,  1863. 


CONTENTS. 


THE   FIRST   LETTER. 


PAOB 


To  Deacon  Solomon  Jones — Concerning  his  system  of  family 

government, 13 

THE   SECOND    LETTER. 
To  Mrs.  Martha  Jones  (wife  of  Deacon  Solomon) — Concern- 
ing her  system  of  family  government,  ...        27 

THE   THIRD   LETTER. 
To  F.  Mendelssohn  Jones,  Singing  Master — Concerning  the 

influence  of  his  profession  on  personal  character,  .         41 

THE   FOURTH    LETTER. 
To  Hans  Sachs  Jones,  Shoemaker — Concerning  his  habit  of 

business  lying, 67 

THE    FIFTH   LETTER. 
To  Edward  Patson  Jones — Concerning  his  failure  to  yield  to 

his  convictions  of  duty, 71 

THE    SIXTH   LETTER. 
To  Mrs.  Jessy  Bell  Jones — Concerning  the  difficulty  she 

experiences  in  keeping  her  servants,    ....        86 

THE    SEVENTH   LETTER. 
To  Salathiel  Fogg  Jones,  Spiritualist — Concerning  the  faith 

and  prospects  of  his  sect  of  religionists,        .        .        .       lOO 
1* 


10  Contents, 

FAGB 

THE    EIGHTH   LETTER. 
To   Benjamin   Franklin  Jones,   Mechanic — Concerning  his 

habitual  absence  from  church  on  Sunday,     .         .         .       115 

THE   NINTH   LETTER. 
To  Washington  Allston  Jones — Concerning  the  policy  of 

making  his  brains  marketable,     .         .         .         .         .128 

THE    TENTH    LETTER. 
To  Rev.  Jeremiah  Jones,  D.D. — Concerning  the  failure  of  his 

pulpit  ministry,  .         .         .         .         .         .         .142 

THE   ELEVENTH    LETTER. 
To  Stephen  Girard  Jones — Concerning  the  best  way  of  spend- 
ing his  money,   ........       15T 

THE    TWELFTH    LETTER. 
To  Noel  Jones — Concerning  his  opinion  that  he  knows  pretty 

much  erery thing, 171 

THE   THIRTEENTH   LETTER. 
To  RcFirs  Choate  Jones,  Lawyer — Concerning  the  duties  and 

dangers  of  his  profession,    ......       185 

THE    FOURTEENTH   LETTER. 
To  Mrs.  Royal  Purple  Jones — Concerning  her  absorbing  de- 
votion to  her  own  person, 200 

THE    FIFTEENTH   LETTER. 
To  Miss  Felicia  Hemans  Jones — Concerning  her  strong  de- 
sire to  become  an  authoress,        .        .         .        .        .215 

THE    SIXTEENTH    LETTER. 
To  Jehu  Jones — Concerning  the  character  and  tendencies  of 

the  fast  life  which  he  is  living, 229 


Contents.  H 


PACE 

THE    SEVENTEENTn   LETTER. 
To  Thomas  Ar}*old  Jones,  Schoolmaster — Concerning  the  re- 
quirements and  the  tendencies  of  his  profession,  .        .       242 


THE    EIGHTEEXTn    LETTER. 
To  Mrs.    Rosa  Hoppin   Jones — Concerning  her  dislike   of 

routine  and  her  desire  for  change  and  amusement,        .       256 

THE    NINETEENTH    LETTER. 
To  Jefferson  Davis  Jones,  Politician — Concerning  the  im- 
morality of  his  pursuits,  and  their  effect  upon  himself 
and  his  country, 269 

THE   TWENTIETH    LETTER. 
To  Dr.  Benjamin  Rush  Jones — Concerning  the  position  of 

himself  and  his  profession, 284 

THE    TWENTT-FIRST   LETTER. 
To   Diogenes   Jones — Concerning  his   disposition   to    avoid 

society, 299 

THE    TWENTY  SECOND    LETTER. 
To  Sacl  M.  Jones — Concerning  his  habit  of  looking  upon  the 

dark  side  of  things, 310 

THE    TWENTY-THIRD   LETTER. 
To  John  Smith  Jones — Concerning  his  neighborly  duties,  and 

bis  failure  to  perform  them,  .....     322 

THE    TWENTT-FOITRTH    LETTER. 
To  Goodrich  Jones,  Jr. — Concerning  his  disposition  to  be 
content,  with  the  respectability  and  wealth  which  his 
fatter  has  acquired  for  him, 335 


LETTERS   TO    THE    JONESES. 


THE    FIRST    LETTER. 

COyCEIlNiyG  HIS  SYSTEM  OF  FAMILY  GOVERNMEITT. 

YOU  are  now  an  old  man,  and  I  do  not  expect  that 
anything  I  shall  write  to  you  will  do  you  good. 
I  only  seek,  through  what  I  say  to  you,  to  convey  useful 
hints  and  lessons  to  others.  It  is  not  a  pleasure  to  me 
to  wound  your  self-love,  or  to  disturb  the  complacency 
which  you  entertain  amid  the  wreck  of  your  family 
hopes.  It  is  not  delightful  to  assure  you  that  yom-  Ufe 
has  been  a  mistake  from  the  beginning,  and  that  your 
children  owe  the  miscarriage  of  their  lives  to  the  train- 
ing which  you  still  seem  to  regard  as  alike  the  offspring 
and  parent  of  Christian  wisdom.     If  there  were  not 


14  Letters  to  the  Jonefes. 

others  in  the  world  who  are  making  the  same  mistake 
that  you  have  made,  and  moving  forward  to  the  same 
sad  family  disaster,  yon  should  hear  from  me  no  word 
that  you  could  shape  into  a  reproach.  But  you  will 
soon  pass  away,  with  the  comforting  assurance  that 
your  motives,  at  least,  were  good  ;  and  to  these,  your 
only  comforts,  I  commend  you. 

You  were  once  the  great  man  of  Jonesville.  You 
then  deemed  it  necessary  to  maintain  a  dignified  de- 
portment, to  take  the  lead  in  all  matters  of  public 
moment,  to  manage  the  Jonesville  church  and  the 
Jonesville  minister,  and  to  exercise  a  general  supervis- 
ion of  the  village.  There  was  not  a  man,  woman,  or 
child  in  the  village  who  did  not  feel  your  presence  as 
that  of  an  independent,  arbitrary  power,  that  permitted 
no  liberty  of  will  around  it.  You  had  your  notions  of 
politics,  religion,  municipal  affairs,  education,  social 
life  ;  and  to  these  you  tried  to  bend  every  mind  that 
came  into  contact  with  you.  You  undertook  to  think 
for  your  neighbors,  and  to  impose  upon  them  your  own 
law  in  all  things.  If  one  independent  man  spoke  out 
his  thoughts,  and  refused  to  be  bound  to  your  will,  you 
persecuted  him.  You  beset  him  behind  and  before,  by 
petty  annoyances.  You  took  aAvay  his  business.  You 
sneered  at  him  in  public  and  private.  In  this  way, 
you  banished  from  Jonesville  many  men  who  would 
have  been  an  honor  to  it,  and  finally  alienated  from 


To  Deacon  Solomon  Jones.  15 


yourself  the  hearts  of  your  own  kindred.  You  drove  a 
whole  village  into  opposition  to  yourself.  You  forced 
them  to  a  self-assertion  that  manifested  itself  in  a  mul- 
titude of  improper  and  offensive  ways.  If  you  opposed 
a  harmless  dance  at  a  neighbor's  house,  the  villagers 
revenged  themselves  by  holding  a  ball  at  the  tavern. 
It  took  only  a  few  years  of  your  peculiar  management 
to  fill  Jonesville  with  doggeries  and  loafers,  and  to 
prove  to  you  that  your  village  management  had  been  a 
sorry  failure. 

You  seem  to  have  conducted  life  upon  the  assimap- 
tion  that  all  the  men  in  the  world,  with  the  single  excep- 
tion of  Deacon  Solomon  Jones,  are  incapable  of  self- 
government.  It  never  has  occurred  to  you,  in  any  dis- 
pute with  a  neighbor,  or  in  any  difficulty  which  ar- 
rayed the  public  against  you,  that  you  could  possibly  be 
in  the  wrong  ;  and  it  always  has  offended  you  to  think 
that  any  other  Jones,  or  any  other  man,  should  dare  to 
controvert  your  opinions,  or  question  your  decisions. 
And  you  were  so  stupid  that,  Avhen  all  your  neighbors — 
after  much  long-suffering  and  patient  waiting  upon  your 
whims — rebelled  against  you,  and  went  to  extremes  to 
show  their  independence  of,  and  contempt  for  you,  you 
attributed  the  work  of  your  own  hands  to  the  devil. 

Deacon  Jones,  the  Lord  gave  you  brains,  and  Yan- 
kee enterprise  got  you  money  ?  Had  there  been 
proper  management  on  your  part,  Jonesville  would  be 


16  Letters  to  the  Jonefes. 


in  your  hands  to-day ;  but  you  are  aware  that  by  far 
the  larger  proportion  of  your  fellow  citizens  either  do 
not  love  you,  or  positively  hate  you.  How  has  this 
state  of  things  been  arrived  at  ?  Do  you  flatter  your- 
self that  you  have  been  as  wise  as  a  serpent  and  harm- 
less as  a  dove  ?  Do  you  honestly  believe  that  the  loss 
of  .your  influence  is  attributable  rather  to  the  popular 
than  your  own  personal  perverseness  1  I  do  not  expect 
to  make  you  see  it,  but  you  really  did  your  best  to 
make  slaves  of  your  fellows,  and  your  fellows,  recog- 
nizing you  as  a  tyrant,  kicked  over  your  throne,  and 
tumbled  you  into  your  chimney  comer,  where  alone 
you  had  the  power  to  put  your  peculiar  theories  into 
practice. 

A  man  does  not  usually  have  one  set  of  notions  con- 
cerning neighborhood  government  and  another  concern- 
ing family  government.  You  managed  your  own  family 
very  much  as  you  undertook  to  manage  your  village. 
I  can,  indeed,  bear  witness  that  you  gave  your  family 
line  upon  line  and  precept  upon  precept,  but  I  am  not 
so  ready  to  concede  that  you  trained  them  up  in  the 
right  way.  Your  family  was  an  orderly  one,  I  admit, 
but  I  have  seen  jails  and  houses  of  correction  that  were 
more  orderly  still.  An  orderly  house  is  quite  as  liable 
to  be  governed  too  much,  as  a  disorderly  house  is  to  be 
governed  too  little. 

I  always  noticed  this  fact,  with  relation  to  your 


To  Deacon  Solomon  Jones.  17 

mode  of  family  training.  You  enforced  a  blind  obe- 
dience to  your  commands,  and  never  deemed  it  neces- 
sary or  desirable  to  give  a  reason  for  them.  Nay,  you 
told  your  cliildren,  distinctly,  that  it  was  enough  for 
them  that  you  commanded  a  thing  to  be  done.  You 
refused  to  give  them  a  reason  beyond  your  own  wish 
and  will.  You  placed  yourself  between  them  and  their 
own  consciences ;  you  placed  yourself  between  them 
and  their  own  sense  of  that  which  is  just  and  proper 
and  good  ;  nay,  you  placed  yourself  between  them  and 
God,  and  demanded  that  they  should  obey  you  because 
you  willed  it — because  you  commanded  them  to  obey 
you. 

It  is  comparatively  an  easy  thing  to  get  up  an 
orderly  family,  on  such  a  plan  of  operations  as  this. 
A  man  needs  only  to  have  a  strong  arm,  and  a  broad 
palm,  and  a  heart  that  never  opens  to  parental  tender- 
ness, to  secure  the  most  orderly  family  in  the  world. 
It  is  not  a  hard  thing  for  a  man  who  weighs  two  hun- 
dred pounds,  more  or  less,  to  make  a  boy  who  weighs 
only  fifty  pounds,  so  much  afraid  of  him  as  to  obey  his 
minutest  commands.  Indeed,  it  is  not  a  hard  thing  to 
break  down  his  will  entirely,  and  make  a  craven  of  him. 
I  declare  to  you,  Deacon  Jones,  that  the  most  orderly 
families  I  have  ever  knowTi  were  the  worst  governed  ; 
and  one  of  these  families  was  your  own.  You  are  not 
the  first  man  who  has  brought  up  "  an  orderly  family," 


18  Letters  to  the  Jonefes. 


and  fitted  them  for  the  devil's  hand  by  his  system  of 


government. 


Now  will  you  just  think  for  a  moment  what  you  did 
for  your  children  ?  I  know  their  history,  and  in  many 
respects  it  has  been  a  bad  one  and  a  sad  one.  You 
governed  them.  You  laid  your  law  upon  them.  You 
forced  upon  them  your  will  as  their  supreme  rule  of 
action.  They  did  not  fear  God  half  as  much  as  they 
did  you,  though,  if  I  remember  correctly,  you  repre- 
sented Him  to  be  a  sort  of  infinite  Deacon  Solomon 
Jones.  They  did  not  fear  to  lie  half  as  much  as  they 
feared  to  be  flogged.  They  became  hypocrites  through 
their  fear  of  you,  and  they  learned  to  hate  you  because 
you  persisted  in  treating  them  as  servile  dependants. 
You  put  yourself  before  them  and  thrust  yourself  into 
their  life  in  the  place  of  God.  You  bent  them  to  your 
will  with  those  strong  hands  of  yours,  and  you  had  "  an 
orderly  family." 

My  friend,  when  I  think  of  the  families  that  have 
been  trained  and  ruined  in  this  way,  I.  shudder.  Your 
children  were  never  permitted  to  have  any  will,  and 
when  they  went  forth  from  your  threshold,  they  went 
forth  emancipated  slaves,  and  untried  children  in  the 
use  of  liberty.  When  they  found  the  hand  of  parental 
restraint  removed,  there  was  no  restraint  upon  them. 
They  had  never  been  taught  that  most  essential  of  all 
government,  self-government ;  and  a  man  who  has  not 


To  Deacon  Solomon  Jones. 


19 


been  taught  to  govern  himself  is  as  helpless  in  the 
world  as  a  child.  A  family  may  be  orderly  to  a  degree 
of  nicety  that  is  really  admirable,  and  still  be  as  incapa- 
ble of  self-government  as  a  family  of  idiots.  Families 
that  might  be  reckoned  by  thousands  have  left  orderly 
homes,  all  prepared  for  the  destruction  to  which  they 
rushed. 

The  military  commander  knows  very  well  that  he 
says  very  little  as  to  the  moral  character  of  his  soldiers 
when  he  says  that  they  are  under  excellent  discipline. 
The  drill  of  the  camp  may  make  the  camp  the  most 
orderly  of  places,  but  this  drill  does  not  go  beyond  the 
camp,  or  deeper  than  the  surface  of  the  character. 
Take  from  the  shoulders  of  these  soldiers  the  strong: 
hand  of  military  control,  and  you  will  have — as  ordinary 
armies  go — a  mass  of  swearing,  gaming,  drinking  row- 
dies, ready  to  rush  into  any  excess.  The  state  prison  is 
the  most  orderly  place  in  the  world.  The  drill  is  fault- 
less. I  know  of  no  place  where,  among  an  equal  number 
of  men  gathered  from  the  lower  walks  of  society,  there 
are  so  few  breaches  of  decorum ;  yet,  when  the  in- 
mates reappear  in  society,  they  are  not  improved.  You 
imdertook  to  introduce  a  military  drill,  or  prison  drill, 
or  both,  into  your  family ;  and  you  failed,  precisely  as 
generals  and  wardens  fail.  You  never  recognized  the 
fact  that  the  essential  part  of  a  child's  education  is  that 
of  teaching  him  the  use  of  his  liberty,  under  the  control 


20  Letters  to  the  Jonefes. 

of  his  sense  of  that  which  is  right  and  proper  and  laud- 
able in  human  conduct.  You  did  not  undertake  to  de- 
velop and  enlighten  that  sense  at  all.  You  managed 
your  children  instead  of  teaching  them  how  to  manage 
themselves.  You  never  appealed  to  their  sense  of 
honor,  or  to  their  sense  of  right  or  propriety,  as  the 
motive  to  any  desirable  course  of  conduct ;  and  when 
you  placed  your  command  upon  one  of  them,  and  he 
dared  to  ask  you  after  a  reason,  you  crushed  him 
into  silence  by  assuring  him  that  he  had  nothing  to  do 
with  a  reason. 

It  is  not  uncommon  to  hear  the  assertion  that  the 
sons  of  ministers  and  deacons  turn  out  badly.  Statis- 
tics show  that  the  statement  is  too  broad,  and  yet  com- 
mon observation  unites  in  giving  it  some  basis  in  truth. 
It  is  not  at  all  uncommon  to  see  the  children  of  excel- 
lent parents — children  who  have  been  bred  in  the  most 
orderly  manner — going  straight  to  destruction  the  mo- 
ment they  leiJve  the  family  roof  and  cease  to  feel 
parental  restraint.  These  parents  feel,  doubtless,  very 
much  as  you  do,  that  it  is  all  a  mysterious  dispensation 
of  Providence  ;  but  it  is  only  the  natural  result  of  their 
style  of  training. 

I  know  of  public  institutions  for  the  reform  of  va- 
grant children,  that  are  celebrated  for  the  delightful 
manner  in  which  those  children  are  brought  to  square 
their   conduct    by  rule.      They  march  like    soldiers. 


To  Deacon  Solomon  Jones.  21 

They  sing  like  machines.  They  enter  their  school- 
room in  silent  files  that  would  delight  the  eye  of  an 
Indian  warrior.  They  recite  in  concert  the  most  com- 
plicated prose  and  verse.  They  play  by  rule,  and  go 
to  bed  to  the  ringing  of  a  bell,  and  say  the  Lord's 
prayer  in  unison.  And  they  run  away  when  they  can 
get  a  chance,  and  steal,  and  sweai',  and  cheat,  and 
prowl,  and  indulge  in  obscene  talk,  as  of  old.  I  know 
of  other  public  institutions  of  this  kind,  or,  at  least,  one 
other,  that  has  no  rule  of  action  except  the  general 
Christian  rule  within  it.  The  children  are  taught  to  do 
right.  They  are  instructed  in  that  which  is  right. 
Their  sense  of  that  which  is  true  and  good  and  pure 
and  right  and  proper  is  educated,  developed,  stimulated, 
and  thus  are  the  childen  taught  to  govern  themselves. 
They  govern  themselves  while  in  the  institution,  and 
they  govern  themselves  after  they  leave  it.  It  is  im- 
possible to  reform  a  vicious  child  without  patiently 
teaching  that  child  self-government.  All  the  drill  of  all 
the  masters  and  all  the  reformers  in  the  world  will  not 
reform  a  single  vice  of  a  single  child ;  and  this  show  of 
juvenile  drill  that  we  meet  with  in  schools  and  charit- 
able institutions  is  frequently — nay,  I  will  say,  general- 
ly— a  most  deceitful  thing — the  spacious  cover  of  a 
system  of  training  that  is  terribly  worse  than  useless. 
If  dogs  could  talk,  they  could  be  taught  to  do  the  same 
things  in  the  same  way  ;  but  they  would  hunt  cats  and 


22  Letters  to  the  Jonefes. 


bark  at  passengers  in  the  old  fashion  when  beyond  the 
reach  of  their  master's  lash. 

You  will  see,  Deacon  Jones,  that  your  mode  of 
family  training  has  introduced  me  to  a  field  of  discus- 
sion as  wide  as  it  is  important.  It  relates  to  public 
institutions  as  well  as  to  families,  and  to  nations  as 
well  as  to  public  institutions.  You  and  I,  and  all  the 
democrats  of  America,  have  been  indulging  in  dreams 
of  democracy  in  Europe,  but  these  dreams  do  not  come 
to  pass,  and  are  not  likely  to  be  realized  at  all.  The 
people  of  Europe  have  been  governed.  They  know 
nothing  about  self-government,  and,  whenever  they 
have  tried  the  experiment,  they  have  sadly  failed. 
That  which  alone  imperils  democracy  in  this  country  is 
the  loss  of  the  power  of  self-government,  and  that 
which  alone  prevents  the  establishment  of  democracy 
in  Europe  is  the  lack  of  that  power.  The  governing 
classes  of  Europe  will  take  good  care  to  see  that  that 
power  be  not  developed. 

But  I  return  to  this  matter  of  family  government, 
and  I  imagine  that,  before  this  time,  you  have  asked 
me  whether  I  have  intended  to  sneer  at  orderly  fami- 
lies. I  answer— not  at  all.  There  must  be,  without 
question,  more  or.  less  repression  of  the  irregularities 
of  young  life,  and  of  such  rough  passions  as  sometimes 
break  out  and  gain  ascendency  in  certain  natures  ;  but 
this  should  be  exceptional.     I  do  not  sneer  at  orderly 


To  Deacon  Solomon  Jones.  23 

families,  but  I  like  to  see  order  growing  out  of  each 
member's  sense  of  propriety,  and  each  member's  desire 
to  contribute  to  the  general  good  conduct  and  harmony 
of  the  family  life.  I  like  to  see  each  child  gradually 
transformed  into  a  gentleman  or  a  lady,  -with  gentle- 
manly or  ladylike  habits,  through  a  cultivated  sense 
of  that  "which  is  proper,  and  good.  I  know  that 
children  thus  bred — taught  from  the  beginning  that 
they  have  a  stake  and  a  responsibility  in  the  family 
life — used  from  the  beginning  to  manage  themselves — 
are  prepared  to  go  out  into  the  world  and  take  care 
of  themselves.  To  them,  home  is  a  place  of  dignity, 
and  they  will  never  disgrace  it.  To  them,  liberty  is 
no  new  possession,  and  they  know  how  to  use  with- 
out abusing  it.  To  them,  self-control  is  a  habit,  and 
they  never  lose  it. 

Do  you  know  what  a  child  is.  Deacon  Jones  ?  Did 
you  ever  think  whence  it  came  and  whither  it  is  go- 
ing ?  Did  it  ever  occur  to  you  that  any  one  of  your 
children  is  a  good  deal  more  God's  child  that  it  is  yours  ? 
Did  you  ever  happen  to  think  that  it  came  from  hea- 
ven, and  that  it  is  more  your  brother  than  your  child  ? 
Never,  I  venture  to  say.  You  never  dream  that  your 
children  are  your  younger  brothers  and  sisters,  intrust- 
ed to  you  by  your  common  Father,  for  the  pui-poses 
of  protection  and  education ;  and  you  certainly  never 
treat  them  as  if  they  were.    You  have  not  a  child  in 


24  Letters  to  the  Jonefes. 

the  world  wliose  pardon  you  should  not  ask  for  the 
impudent  and  most  unbrotherly  assumptions  which 
you  have  practiced  upon  him.  Ah,  if  you  could  have 
looked  upon  your  sons  as  your  younger  brothers  and 
your  daughters  as  your  younger  sisters,  and  patiently 
borne  with  them  and  instructed  them  in  the  use  of  life 
and  liberty,  and  built  them  up  into  a  self-regulated 
manhood  and  womanhood,  you  would  not  now  be  alone 
and  comfortless.  A  child  is  not  a  horse  or  a  dog,  to 
be  controlled  by  a  walking  stick  or  a  whip,  imder  all 
circumstances.  There  are  some  children  that,  like 
some  dogs  and  horses,  have  vicious  tendencies  that 
can  only  be  repressed  by  the  infliction  of  pain,  but  a 
child  is  not  a  brute,  and  is  not  to  be  governed  like  a 
brute.  A  child  is  a  young  man  or  a  young  woman, 
possessing  man's  or  woman's  faculties  in  miniature,  and 
is  just  as  sensitive  to  insult  and  injury  and  injustice  as 
in  after  years.  You  have  insulted  your  children.  You 
have  treated  them  unreasonably,  and  you  ought  not  to 
complain  if  they  hold  you  in  dislike  and  revengeful 
contempt. 

You  never  did  anything  to  make  your  children  love 
you,  and  you  cannot  but  be  aware  that  the  moment 
that  they  were  removed  from  your  authority,  you  lost 
all  influence  over  them.  Why  could  you  not  reclaim 
that  boy  of  yours,  who  madly  became  a  debauchee, 
and  disgraced  your  home,  and  tortured   your  heart? 


To  Deacon  Solomon  Jones.  25 

Because  jon  had  never  made  him  love  you,  or  given 
him  better  motives  for  self-restraint  than  your  own 
arbitrary  will.  He  had  been  governed  from  the  out- 
side, and  never  from  the  inside  ;  and  when  the  outside 
authority  was  gone,  there  was  nothing  left  upon  which 
you  had  power  to  lay  your  hand.  Why  did  your  daugh- 
ter elope  with  one  who  was  not  w^orthy  of  her  ?  She 
did  it  simply  because  she  found  a  man  who  loved  her, 
and  gave  her  the  consideration  due  her  as  a  woman — a 
love  and  a  consideration  which  she  had  never  found  at 
home,  where  she  was  regarded  by  you  as  the  dependent 
servant  of  your  will.  She  was  nothing  at  home  ;  and, 
badly  as  she  married,  she  is  a  better  and  a  freer  and 
a  happier  woman  than  she  would  have  been  had  she 
continued  with  you.  I  wish  to  impress  upon  you  the 
conviction  that  these  children  of  yours  went  astray, 
not  in  spite  of  your  mode  of  family  training,  but  in 
consequence  of  it.  If  I  should  wish  to  ruin  my  family, 
I  w^ould  pursue  your  policy,  and  be  measurably  sure 
of  the  desired  result. 

It  is  not  pleasant  for  me  to  tell  you  these  things, 
but  I  am  writing  for  the  public,  and  can  have  no  choice. 
I  tell  you,  and  all  who  read  these  words,  that,  if  you 
do  not  get  th<8  hearts  of  your  childi-en,  and  build  them 
up  in  the  right  use  of  a  liberty  which  is  no  more  theirs 
after  they  leave  your  roof  than  it  is  before,  you  will  be 
to  them  forever  as  heathen  men   and   publicans.     If 


26  Letters  to  the  Jonefes. 

they  take  the  determination  to  go  to  destruction,  they 
will  go,  and  you  cannot  save  them.  A  child  must  have 
freedom,  "within  limits  which  a  variety  of  circumstances 
must  define,  and  be  taught  how  to  use  it,  and  made 
responsible  for  the  right  use  of  it.  It  is  in  this  way 
that  self-government  is  taught,  and  in  this  thing  that 
self-government  consists.  All  children,  on  arriving  at 
manhood  and  womanhood,  should  be  the  self-governed 
companions  and  friends  of  their  parents,  and  on  going 
out  into  the  world,  or  losing  parental  control,  should 
not  feel  the  transition  in  the  slightest  degree.  No  child 
is  trained  in  the  right  way  who  feels,  when  he  steps 
forth  from  the  family  threshold — an  independent  actor 
— any  less  restraint  than  he  felt  the  hour  before.  If 
he  does,  he  is  in  dantrer  of  falHng  before  the  first 
temptation  that  assails  him. 


THE    SECOND    LETTER. 

S'o  Prs.  glarlba  lones  {Mik  of  gracou  Solomon). 

COyCERNIXG  HER  SYSTEM  OF  FAMILY  GOVEUNMENT. 

SUPPOSE  I  have  thought  of  you  ten  thousand 
times  within  the  last  twenty  years.  I  never  see 
a  clean  kitchen,  or  a  trim  and  tidy  housewife,  or  an 
irreproachable  "  dresser,"  with  its  shming  rows  of 
tin  and  pewter,  or  a  dairy  full  of  milk,  or  a  cleanly 
raked  chip-yard,  or  polished  brass  andirons,  flaming 
with  fire  on  one  side  and  reflecting  ugly  faces  on  the 
other,  or  catch  a  certain  savory  scent  of  breakfast  on 
a  frosty  morning,  or  see  a  number  of  children  crowded 
out  of  a  door  on  their  way  to  school,  without  thinking 
of  you.  Thriving,  busy,  exact,  scrupulous,  neat,  minute 
in  your  supervision  of  all  family  concerns,  striving  to 
have  your  own  way  without  interfering  with  the  dea- 
con's, you  have  always  lingered  in  my  memory  as  a 


28  Letters  to  the  Jonefes. 


remarkable  woman.  You  sat  up  so  late  at  night  and 
rose  so  early  in  the  morning,  that  it  seemed  as  if  you 
never  slept.  There  was  a  chronic  alertness  about  yoii 
that  detected  and  even  anticipated  every  occurrence  in 
and  around  the  house.  Not  a  door  could  be  opened 
or  a  window  raised  in  any  part  of  the  house,  however 
distant  it  might  be,  without  your  hearing  and  identify- 
ing it.  Not  a  voice  was  heard  within  the  house  at  any 
time  of  the  day  or  night  that  you  did  not  know  who 
uttered  it.  Your  soul  seemed  to  have  become  the 
tenant  of  the  whole  building,  and  to  be  conscious  of 
every  occurrence  in  every  part  of  it  at  every  moment. 
You  not  only  knew  what  was  going  on  everywhere, 
but  every  part  spoke  of  yoiir  presence. 

It  was  a  curious  way  you  had  of  maintaining  the 
family  harmony  without  the  sacrifice  of  your  own 
sense  of  independence.  You  really  carried  on  a  very 
independent  life  within  certain  limits.  You  were  aware 
that,  in  the  matter  of  will,  the  deacon,  your  husband, 
was  very  obstinate,  and  that  you  could  never  hope  to 
dispute  his  empire.  So  you  shrewdly  managed  never 
to  cross  him  where  the  course  of  his  will  ran  strongest, 
and  to  be  sure  that  no  one  else  crossed  him.  I  remem- 
ber very  well  your  look  of  amazement  and  reproof 
when  you  heard  me  treat  with  apparent  irreverence 
some  of  his  most  rigidly  fixed  opinions,  and  assail 
prejudices  which  you  knew  were  as  deeply  seated  as 


To  Mrs.  Martha  Jones.  29 


his  life.  I  enjoyed  your  look  of  amazement  quite  as 
much  as  I  did  the  deacon's  anger,  for  it  seemed  to  me 
a  very  justifiable  bit  of  mischief  to  break  into  a  family 
peace  that  "was  maintained  in  this  way.  By  humoring 
and  indulging  your  husband,  in  all  matters  over  which 
he  saw  fit  to  exercise  authority,  and  by  so  closely 
attending  to  everything  else  that  he  did  not  think  of 
it,  you  kept  him  in  a  state  of  self-complacency,  and 
were  the  recognized  queen  of  a  ^vide  realm. 

As  I  look  back  upon  your  life,  I  find  but  little  to 
blame  you  for.  Wherever  your  errors  have  been  pro- 
ductive of  mischief,  they  have  been  errors  of  ignorance 
— mistakes — ^possibly  excusable  in  the  circumstances 
under  which  they  were  committed.  You  loved  your 
children  with  all  the  tenderness  and  devotion  of  a  irood 
mother,  but,  in  your  anxiety  that  they  should  not  cross 
their  father's  will,  and  provoke  his  displeasure,  you 
became  but  little  better  than  an  irksome  overseer  to 
them.  You  knew  that  if  there  was  anything  that  your 
husband  insisted  on,  it  was  parental  authority.  You 
knew  that  the  strict  ordering  of  his  family  was  his  pet 
idea,  and  that  family  government,  in  the  fullest  mean- 
ing and  force  of  the  phrase,  was  his  hobby.  This  pet 
idea — this  hobby — you  made  room  for  in  your  family 
plans.  You  knew  that  he  was  often  unreasonable,  but 
that  made  no  difiference.  You  knew  that  his  will  ran 
strongest  in  that  direction,  and  you  made  it  your  busi- 


30  Letters  to  the  Jonefes. 

ness  to  see  that  as  few  obstacles  lay  in  its  path  as  pos- 
sible. On  one  side  stood  the  deacon's  inexorable  laws 
and  rules  and  will,  by  which  his  children,  of  every  age, 
were  to  square  their  conduct.  On  the  other  stood  those 
precious  children  of  yours,  with  all  the  wilfulness  and 
waywardness  of  children — with  all  their  longing  for 
parental  tenderness  and  indulgence — with  moods  which 
they  had  never  learned  to  manage,  and  tempers  which 
they  did  not  know  the  meaning  of ;  and  you  became 
supremely  anxious  that  the  deacon  should  not  be  pro- 
voked by  them  to  wrath,  and  that  they  should  escape 
the  consequences  of  his  displeasure. 

WeU,  what  was  the  consequence  ?  This  ceaseless 
vigilance  which  you  had  learned  to  exercise  over  every 
portion  of  the  household  economy,  you  extended  to  the 
bearing  and  conduct  of  your  children.  You  exercised 
over  them  the  strictest  sm-veillance.  You  carried  in 
your  mind  and  in  your  manners  the  dread  of  a  collision 
between  them  and  their  despotic  governor.  You  tried 
to  save  him  from  irritation  and  them  from  its  conse- 
quences. You  kept  one  eye  on  him  and  another  on 
them,  and  nothing  in  the  conduct  of  either  party 
escaped  you.  Your  children,  as  they  emerged  from 
babyhood,  grew  gradually  into  the  consciousness  that 
they  were  watched,  and  that  not  a  word  could  be 
uttered,  or  a  hand  lifted,  or  a  foot  moved,  without  a 
degree  of  notice  which  curtailed  its  liberty.    It  was 


To  Mrs.  Martha  Jones.  31 

repression — repression — nothing  but  repression — every- 
where, for  them.  No  hearty  laugh,  or  overflowing, 
childish  glee,  or  noisy  play  for  them,  for  fear  that  the 
deacon  might  be  disturbed. 

At  last,  every  child  you  had,  in  addition  to  the  fear 
of  its  father,  came  to  entertain  a  dread  of  its  mother. 
I  think  your  children  loved  you,  or  Avould  have  loved 
you,  had  they  not  associated  you  forever  with  restraint. 
If  they  played,  you  were  near  with  your  everlasting 
"  hush ! "  If  they  sat  down  at  table,  they  knew  that 
your  eye  was  upon  them — that  you  watched  the  position 
of  every  head  under  the  deacon's  long  "  grace  " — the 
passage  of  every  mouthful — the  manner  in  which  they 
asked  every  question  and  responded  to  what  was  said 
to  them — the  amount  of  food  and  diink  consmned — 
everything.  They  felt  themselves  wrapped  up  in — de- 
voured by — a  vigilant  supervision  that  took  from  them 
their  liberty  and  their  will,  and  with  them,  all  feelings 
of  self-respect  and  self-possession. 

It  is  not  the  opinion  of  your  neighbors  that  either 
your  husband  or  yourself  has  had  anything  to  do  with 
the  ruin  of  your  children.  The  deacon  was  so  strict 
and  so  efficient  in  his  family  government,  and  you  were 
so  scrupulously  careful  in  everything  that  related  to 
their  manners  at  home  and  away,  that  they  did  not 
imagine  it  possible  that  any  bad  result  could  naturally 
flow  from  such  training.     I  do  not  say  that  they  are 


mistaken  from  any  wash  to  blame  you,  but  I  must  tell 
you  the  truth.  Your  minute  ■watchfulness  and  censor- 
ship exercised  over  these  children  until  you  became 
to  them  God,  conscience,  and  will,  were  just  as  fatal 
to  a  manly  and  womanly  development  as  the  deacon's 
irresponsible  commands.  A  boy  that  feels  that  every 
word  of  his  mouth  and  every  movement  of  his  body  is 
watched  by  one  whose  eye  never  sleeps,  and  whose 
hand  is  ever  ready  to  repress,  becomes  at  last  a 
cowai'd  or  a  bully.  There  are  natures  that  will  not 
submit  to  this  surveillance ;  and  when  these  become 
weary  of  the  pressure,  they  kick  it  aside,  and  parental 
restraint — associated  with  all  that  is  hatefid  in  slavery 
— is  gone  forever. 

Under  the  peculiar  training  and  home  influences  to 
which  your  children  were  subjected,  there  were  but 
two  things  that  they  were  likely  to  become,  viz. : 
rebels  or  cravens.  Tour  children  were  naturally  high- 
spiri^d,  like  the  deacon  and  yourself,  and  they  became 
rebels.  Otherwise,  they  would  have  carried  with  them 
thi'ough  life  the  feeling  that  whatever  show  they  might 
put  on — however  much  they  might  struggle  against  it — 
they  were  imderlings.  There  are  some  men  and  some 
women,  probably,  who,  living  through  a  long  life 
under  favorable  circumstances,  recover  from  this  early 
discipline  of  repression,  and  this  abject  slavery  of  the 
will,   but   they   are   few.     They  must  be   few.     The 


To  Mrs.  Martha  Jones.  33 


negro  who  has  once  been  a  slave  cannot,  one  time  in 
ten,  refuse  to  take  off  his  hat  or  bow  to  a  white  man. 
He  is  never  at  home,  w^hen  placed  on  an  equality  with 
him.  He  carries  in  his  soul  the  badge  of  servility,  and 
he  can  no  more  thrust  it  from  his  sight  or  banish  it 
from  his  consciousness  than  he  can  change  the  color 
of  his  skin.  This  is  not  because  he  is  a  negro,  simply, 
but  because  he  has  been  a  slave — because  he  has  been 
trained  up  to  have  no  will,  and  to  be  controlled  under 
all  circumstances  by  the  wills  of  those  who  had  him 
in  their  power. 

A  child  can  be  made  the  slave  of  a  parent  just  as 
thoroughly  as  a  negro  ever  was  made  the  slave  of  a 
white  man,  and  such  a  child  can  be  just  as  everlastingly 
damaged  by  parental  or  family  slavery,  as  a  bondman 
can  be  by  any  system  of  bondage.  A  child  can  be  made 
as  mean,  and  cowardly,  and  deceitful,  and  devoid  of 
self-respect,  by  a  system  of  management  which  puts 
a  curb  upon  every  action,  as  the  devil  himself  could 
possibly  desire.  This  system  of  watchful  repression, 
and  minute  supervision,  and  criticism  of  every 
action,  among  children,  is  utterly  debilitating  and 
demoralizing.  You  intended  no  harm  by  it,  madam. 
Under  the  circumstances,  it  was  a  very  natural  thing  for 
you  to  do  ;  but  I  think  you  can  hardly  fiiil  to  see  that, 
unwittingly,  you  perfected  the  work  of  destruction  in 

your  children  which  the  deacon  so  thoroughly  began, 

2* 


34  Letters  to  the  Jonefes. 

and  for  which  he  woidd  have  been,  without  your 
assistance,  entirely  sufficient. 

Oh !  when  will  the  world  learn  that  children  are 
neither  animals  nor  slaves  ?  When  will  the  world 
learn  that  children — the  purest,  sweetest,  noblest, 
truest,  most  sagacious  creatures  in  the  's^^orld — with  a 
natural  charter  of  liberty  as  broad  as  that  enjoyed  by 
the  angels — should  be  treated  with  respect  ?  When 
shall  this  idea  that  all  legitimate  training  relates  to 
the  use  of  liberty — to  the  acquisition  of  the  power  of 
self-goA^ernment — become  the  universal  basis  of  family 
policy  ? 

You  ask  me  what  I  really  mean  by  all  this,  for  you 
are  a  practical  woman,  and  are  not  to  be  taken  in  by 
a  set  of  easily  written  phrases.  Well,  I  will  try  to 
explain,  or  illustrate,  my  meaning.  I  remember  a 
gathering  at  your  house — a  party  of  friends — to  which 
your  children  were  admitted  ;  and  I  remember  with 
painful  distinctness  the  telegraphic  communication 
Avhich  you  maintained  with  them  during  the  whole 
evening.  If  James  got  his  legs  crossed,  or,  in  his 
drowsiness,  gaped,  or  if  he  coughed,  or  sneezed,  or 
laughed  above  a  certain  key,  or  make  a  remark,  or 
moved  his  chair,  it  was  :  "  James,  h — m  !  " — "  James, 
h — ni !  "  "  James,  h — m  !  "  And  James  was  only  one 
of  half  a  dozen  whom  you  treated  in  the  same  way. 
You  began  the  evening  with  the  feeling  that  you  were 


To  Mrs.  Martha  Jones.  35 


entirely  responsible  for  the  behavior  of  those  chil- 
dren— -just  fis  much  responsible  as  if  they  severally 
were  the  fingers  of  your  hand.  You  acted  as  if  they 
were  machines  which,  for  the  evening,  you  had  imder- 
taken  to  operate?  They  felt  that  they  were  xmder 
the  eye  of  a  vigilant  keepei',  and  they  did  not  dream 
of  such  a  thing  as  acting  for  themselves.  They  were 
acting  for  you,  and  they  did  not  know  until  they  heard 
your  suggestive  "  h — m  ! "  whether  they  were  right  or 
wrong.  You  undertook  for  the  evening  to  be  to  them 
in  the  stead  of  their  sense  of  propriety ;  and  the  com- 
munication between  them  and  you  being  imperfect, 
they  often  offended.  I  know  that  your  own  good 
sense  will  tell  you  now  that  this  is  not  the  way  gentle- 
men and  ladies  are  made. 

I  was  recently  in  a  family  circle  where  I  witnessed 
a  most  delightful  contrast  to  aU  this — where  the  sons 
and  daughters  were  brought  up  and  introduced  to  me 
by  the  father  and  mother  ^^dth  as  much  politeness  and 
cordiality  as  if  they  were  kings  and  queens  every  one, 
and  with  as  much  freedom  as  if  the  parents  had  not 
the  slightest  doubt  that  the  children — from  the  oldest 
to  the  yoimgest — would  bear  themselves  like  ladies 
and  gentlemen.  There  was  no  forwardness  on  the 
part  of  these  children,  as  you  may  possibly  suppose  ; 
yet  there  was  perfect  self-possession ;  and  each  child 
knew  that  he  stood  upon  his  own  merits.     I  suppose 


36  Letters  to  the  Jonefes. 


that  if  any  one  of  these  children  had  indulged  in  any 
impropriety  during  this  interview — as  not  one  of  them 
did — he  would  have  been  kindly  told  afterward,  by  one 
of  the  parents,  what  he  had  done,  and  why  he  should 
never  repeat  it.  Yom'  children  (pardon  me  for  saying 
it)  were  always  awkward  in  company,  and  for  the 
simple  reason  that  they  did  not  know  whether  they 
were  pleasing  you  or  not.  They  had  no  freedom,  and 
were  guided  by  no  principle.  Your  will  was  their  rule, 
and  your  will,  so  far  as  it  related  to  all  the  minutiaB  of 
behavior,  was  not  thoroughly  known ;  so  they  were 
always  embarrassed,  and  always  turning  their  eyes 
toward  you.  Your  entire  system  of  management  was 
based  on  distrust,  while  that  of  the  family  with  which 
I  contrast  yours  was  foimded  on  trust.  Your  children, 
while  you  could  possibly  keep  your  hold  upon  them, 
were  never  permitted  to  outgrow  their  petticoats, 
while  those  of  the  other  family  alluded  to  were  put 
upon  their  own  responsibility  just  as  soon  as  possible. 
Is  there  any  doubt  as  to  which  system  of  treatment 
is  best  ? 

Perhajis  you,  and  many  others  who  read  this  letter, 
think  that  parental  authority  cannot  be  maintained 
without  its  constant  and  direct  assertion.  If  so,  then 
you  and  they  are  mistaken.  I  have  known  families 
that  possessed  fathers  and  mothers  who  were  honored, 
admired,  loved,  almost  worshiped — fathers  and  mothers 


To  Mrs.  Martha  Jones.     •  37 


whose  children  dreaded  nothing  so  much  as  to  give 
them  pain — yet  these  same  children  knew  no  such  word 
as  fear,  and  Avould  have  heen  utterly  ashamed  to  render 
the  assertion  of  parental  authority  necessary.  Parents 
and  children  were  friends  and  companions — the  children 
deferring  to  the  wishes  and  opinions  of  the  parents, 
and  the  parents  consulting  the  happiness  and  trusting 
the  good  sense  and  good  intentions  of  the  children. 
Whenever  I  hear  a  young  man  calling  his  father  "  the 
old  man,"  and  his  mother  "  the  old  woman,"  I  know 
that  the  old  man  and  the  old  woman  are  to  blame 
for  it. 

If  your  children  had  turned  out  well,  it  must  have 
been  in  spite  of  a  system  of  training  which  was  so  far 
from  being  education  as  to  be  its  opposite.  There  was 
no  inner  life  organized ;  there  was  no  building  up  of 
character ;  there  was  no  establishment  in  each  child's 
heart  of  a  bar  of  judgment — no  exercise  in  the  use 
of  liberty ;  but  only  restraint,  only  fear,  only  slavery. 

I  do  not  entertain  those  opinions  of  one  variety  of 
disorderly  families,  which  you  and  the  deacon  seem  to 
have  entertained  all  your  lives.  I  have  never  yet  seen 
the  house  where  children  were  happy  that  did  not 
show  evidences  of  disorder ;  and  a  man  is  a  fool,  or 
something  worse,  who  quarrels  with  this  state  of 
things.  Where  children  have  playthings,  and  where 
they  play  with  them,  there  must  necessarily  be  disorder, 


38  Letters  to  the  Jonefes. 

and  furniture  more  or  less  disturbed  and  defaced,  and 
noise  more  or  less  disagreeable,  and  litter  that  is  not 
highly  ornamental.  And  before  children  have  had  an 
opportimity  to  learn  propriety  of  speech  and  deport- 
ment— before  they  are  educated — there  will  be  in  their 
conduct — in  playroom  and  parlor  alike — -more  or  less 
of  irregularity  and  extravagance.  Remarks  will  be 
made  that  will  shock  all  hearers  ;  laughs  too  boisterous 
to  be  musical  will  be  indulged  in ;  sudden  explosions 
of  anger  will  occur,  with  other  eccentricities  of  conduct 
that  need  not  be  named.  There  are  remedies  for  all 
these — in  time.  "When,  in  the  course  of  their  educa- 
tion, the  sense  of  propriety  is  stimulated  and  strength- 
ened, and  pride  of  character  is  developed,  these  irreg- 
ularities will  disappear,  and  an  orderly  family  will  be 
the  consequence,  each  child  having  become  its  o^ii 
reformer. 

There  was  a  feature  of  your  family  govenmaent 
(which  you  held  in  common  with  your  husband)  that 
made  still  more  complete  the  slavery  of  your  children. 
It  was  the  deacon's  opinion,  you  will  remember,  that  a 
boy  who  was  not  too  tired  to  play  at  ball,  or  slide 
down  hill,  or  skate,  was  not  too  tired  to  saw  wood,  and 
it  was  his  policy  to  direct  all  the  excess  of  animal  life 
which  his  boys  manifested  into  the  channels  of  industry 
and  usefulness.  You  seconded  this  opinion,  and  main- 
tained that  a  girl  who  was  not  too  sleepy  to  make  a 


To  Mrs.  Martha  Jones.  39 

doll's  hat,  or  a  doll's  dress,  was  not  too  sleepy  to  hem 
a  handkerchief,  or  darn  a  stocking.  So  your  children 
never  had  what  children  call  "  a  good  time,"  Always 
kept  at  work  when  possible,  and  ahvays  restrained  in 
every  exhibition  of  the  spirit  of  play,  home  became  an 
irksome  place  to  them,  and  childhood  a  dreary  period. 
Your  children  were  never  permitted  to  do  anything  to 
please  themselves  in  their  own  way.  Everything  was 
done — or  you  insisted  that  everything  should  be  done 
— to  please  you,  in  your  way.  If  one  of  your  daugh- 
ters sat  down  to  rest,  or  resorted  to  a  little  quiet  amuse- 
ment, you  stirred  her  at  once  by  some  petty  command. 
I  was  often  tempted  to  be  angry  with  you  because 
you  would  never  give  your  children  any  peace.  You 
had  always  something  for  them  to  do,  and  something 
that  had  to  be  done  just  at  the  very  time  when  they 
were  enjoying  themselves  the  best. 

"  Precept  upon  precept "  is  very  well,  in  its  way, 
but  principle  is  much  better.  The  principle  of  right 
and  proper  acting,  fully  inculcated,  renders  unnecessary 
all  precepts ;  and  until  a  child  has  fully  received  this 
principle  he  is  without  the  basis  of  manhood.  The 
earlier  this  principle  is  received  and  a  child  thrown 
upon  his  own  responsibility,  and  made  to  feel  that  he 
is  a  man,  lacking  only  years  to  give  him  strength  and 
wisdom,  the  safer  that  boy  is  for  time  and  for  eternity. 
The  moment  a  boy  becomes   morally  responsible,  he 


40  Letters  to  the  Jonefes. 


becomes  in  a  most  important  sense — a  sense  which 
you  and  the  deacon  never  recognized — free.  I  do  not 
say  that  he  is  removed  from  parental  control  or 
rational  restraint,  but  that  it  is  the  business  of  the 
parent  to  educate  him  in  the  principle  of  self-govern- 
ment. A  boy  bred  thus,  becomes  ten  times  more  a 
man  than  a  boy  bred  in  the  way  which  has  seemed 
best  to  you  ;  and  when  he  goes  forth  from  the  parental 
roof  he  goes  forth  strong,  and  able  to  battle  with  life's 
trials  and  temptations.  Children  long  for  recognition 
— to  do  things  for  themselves — to  be  their  own  masters 
and  mistresses.  Their  play  is  all  based  on  the  assump- 
tion that  they  are  men  and  women,  as,  in  miniature, 
they  are ;  and,  insisting  on  the  right  use  of  liberty, 
and  teaching  them  how  to  use  it,  they  should  have  it, 
restrained  only  when  that  liberty  is  abused. 


THE    THIRD    LETTER. 

^a  J.  ^ttxbelssobit  |oius,  Singing  PHsitr. 

CONCERNING  THE  INFLUENCE  OF  BIS  PROFESSION  ON  PER- 
SONAL CHARACTER. 

ONCE  heard  the  most  reno-vraed  and  venerable  of 
all  the  professors  of  music  in  this  comitry  say 
that  he  always  warned  his  classes  of  young  women  to 
beware  of  singing  men,  and,  with  equal  emphasis,  warned 
his  classes  of  young  men  to  beware  of  singing  women. 
He  alluded,  of  course,  to  professional  singers,  and  I  have 
too  much  respect  for  his  Christian  character  to  suppose 
that  he  was  not  thoroughly  in  earnest.  The  statement 
will  not  flatter  your  self-conceit,  but  I  inmiediately 
thought  of  you,  and  the  life  you  have  led.  You  were 
what  people  called  a  bright  boy.  Indeed,  you  were 
what  I  should  call  a  clever  boy.  You  were  quick,  inge- 
nious, graceful,  skilful ;  and  your  father  and  mother 
told  me,  with  ^Bvident  pride,  and  in  your  presence, 


42  Letters  to  the  Jonefes. 

that  you  had  a  remarkable  talent  for  music.  "  Felix 
Mendelssohn  could  sing,"  they  said,  "  and  carry  his 
own  part,  before  he  was  three  years  old."  And  Felix 
Mendelssohn  was  brought  out  on  aU  possible  occasions, 
to  display  his  really  respectable  gifts  as  a  singer,  and 
was  brought  out  so  often,  and  was  so  much  praised 
and  flattered,  that,  before  he  was  old  enough  to  know 
much  about  anything,  he  had  conceived  the  idea  that 
singing  was  the  largest  thing  to  be  done  in  this  world, 
and  that  Felix  Mendelssohn  Jones  had  a  very  large 
way  of  doing  it. 

Twenty  years  have  passed  away,  and  where  and 
what  are  you  ?  You  are  a  singing  master,  with  a  lim- 
ited income,  and  a  reputation  rather  the  worse  for 
wear.  You  have  never  been  convicted  of  any  flagrant 
acts  of  immorality,  but  men  and  women  have  ticket- 
ed you  "  doubtful."  Careful  fathers  and  mothers  are 
careful  not  to  leave  their  daughters  in  your  company. 
Ladies  who  prize  a  good  name  above  all  other  posses- 
sions never  permit  themselves  to  be  found  alone  with 
you.  There  are  stories  floating  about  concerning  your 
intrigues,  and  the  jealousy  and  unliappiness  of  your 
wife.  Everybody  says  you  are  an  excellent  singer, 
that  you  understand  your  business,  &c.,  &c.,  but  all 
add  that  you  know  nothing  about  anything  else,  that 
they  would  not  trust  you  the  length  of  their  arms,  that 
you  are  a  hypocrite  and  a  scapegrace,*  that  you  ought 


To  F.  Mendelffohn  Jones.  43 

to  be  horsewhipped  and  hissed  out  of  decent  society, 
that  it  is  strange  that  any  respectable  man  will  hare 
you  in  his  family,  and  a  great  many  other  ugly  things 
which  need  not  be  related.  I  am  aware  that  you  have 
warm  friends,  but  not  one  among  the  men,  unless  it  be 
some  poor  fellow  whose  wife's  name  has  been  coupled 
with  yours  in  an  uncomfortable  way.  Wherever  you 
go,  there  are  always  two  or  three  women  who  become 
your  sworn  partisans— women  who  have  your  name 
constantly  on  their  lips — who  will  not  peaceably  or 
without  protest  hear  your  immaculateness  called  in 
question — women  who,  somehow,  seem  to  have  a  per- 
sonal interest  is  estabhshing  the  uncompromising  rigid- 
ity of  your  virtue.  I  do  not  think  very  highly  of 
these  women. 

You  are  a  handsome  man,  and  how  well  you  know 
it !  You  are  a  "  dressy  "  man.  There  is  no  better 
broadcloth  than  you  wear,  and  no  better  tailor  than 
you  employ.  You  are  as  vain  as  a  peacock,  and  selfish 
beyond  all  calculation.  A  stranger,  meeting  you  in  a 
railroad  car,  or  at  a  hotel,  would  not  guess  the  manner 
in  which  you  get  your  money,  and  least  of  all  would 
he  guess*  that  in  your  home,  where  you  are  a  contempt- 
ible tyi-ant,  your  wife  sits  meanly  clad,  and  your  chil- 
dren eat  the  bread  of  poverty. 

I  have  asked  myself  a  thousand  times  why  it  is 
that  you  and  a  large  class  of  singing  men  and  singing 


44  Letters  to  the  Jonefes. 

•women  are  thus  among  the  most  worthless  of  all 
human  beings.  One  would  suppose,  from  the  natm-e 
of  the  case,  that  you  and  they  would  be  among  the 
purest  and  noblest  and  best  men  and  women  in  the 
world.  Music  is  a  creature  of  the  skies.  It  was  on 
the  wings  of  music  that  the  heaven-born  song — "  Peace 
on  earth  :  good  will  to  men  " — came  down,  and  thrilled 
Judea  with  sounds  that  have  since  swept  around  the 
world.  It  is  on  the  breath  of  music  that  our  praises 
rise  to  Him  whose  life  itself,  as  expressed  in  the  move- 
ments of  systems  and  the  phenomena  of  vitality,  is  the 
perfection  of  rhythmical  harmony.  It  is  music  that  lulls 
the  fretful  infant  to  sleep  upon  its  mother's  bosom, 
that  gives  expression  to  the  free  spirit  of  boyhood 
when  it  rejoices  upon  the  hOls,  that  relieves  the  tedium 
of  labor,  that  clothes  the  phrases  by  which  men  woo 
the  women  whom  they  love,  and  that  makes  a  flowery 
channel  through  which  grief  may  pour  its  plaint.  It 
stirs  the  martial  host  to  do  battle  in  the  cause  of  God 
and  freedom,  and  celebrates  the  victory ;  and  "  Avith 
songs  "  as  well  as  with  "  everlasting  joy,"  we  are  told, 
the  redeemed  shall  enter  upon  their  reward  at  last. 
Why,  one  would  suppose  that  no  man  could  live  and 
move  and  have  his  being  in  music,  Avithout  being  sub- 
limated— etherealized — spiritualized  by  it — kept  up  in 
a  seventh  heaven  of  purity  and  refinement. 

This  may  all  be  said  of  music  in  general,  but  to  me 


To  F.  MendelfTohn  Jones.  45 

there  seems  to  be  something  peculiarly  sacred  in  the 
human  voice.  There  is  that  in  the  voice  which  trans- 
cends all  the  instruments  of  man's  invention.  It  is  one 
of  God's  instruments,  and  cannot  be  surpassed  or  equal- 
led. It  is  the  natural  outlet  of  human  passion — the 
opening  through  which — in  love  and  hate,  in  grief  and 
gladness,  in  desire  and  satisfaction — the  soul  breathes. 
It  pulsates  and  trembles  with  that  spiritual  life  and 
motion  which  are  born  of  God's  presence  in  the  soul. 
It  is  not  only  the  expression  of  all  that  is  human  in  us, 
but  of  all  that  is  divine. 

One  would  suppose,  I  repeat,  .from  the  nature  of 
the  case,  that  you  and  all  the  professional  singing  men 
and  singing  women  would  be  among  the  purest  and 
noblest  and  best  men  and  women  in  the  world,  but 
you  and  they  are  notoriously  no  such  thing.  On  the 
contrary,  you  are  the  mean  and  miserable  profligate  I 
have  already  charged  you  with  being,  and  many  of 
your  associates  are  like  you.  In  saying  this,  I  do  not 
mean  to  wound  the  sensibilities  of  some  singing  men 
and  women  who  do  not  belong  in  your  set.  I  know 
truly  Christian  men  and  women  who  have  devoted 
their  lives  to  music,  but  they  are  in  no  danger  of  being 
confoimded  with  your  crowd  and  class.  They  despise 
you  as  much  as  I  do,  and  regret  as  much  as  I  do  the 
facts  which  have  associated  music  with  so  much  that 
is  mean  and  unworthy  in  character  and  conduct. 


46  Letters  to  the  Jonefes. 

It  may  be  interesting  to  the  public,  if  not  to  you, 
to  study  into,  the  causes  of  this  Avide-spread  immorality 
and  worthlessness  among  those  who  make  singing  the 
business  of  their  lives.  In  your  case,  and  in  many 
others,  personal  vanity  has  had  more  to  do  than  anything 
else.  You  were  bred  from  the  cradle  to  a  love  of 
praise.  Your  gift  for  music  was  manifested  early,  and 
your  parents  imdertook  to  exhibit  you  and  secure 
praise  for  you  throughout  all  the  years  of  your  boy- 
hood. You  grew  up  with  a  constant  greed  for  admira- 
tion, and  this  grew  at  last  into  a  passion,  which  has 
never  relinquished  its  hold  upon  you.  You  became 
vain  of  your  accomplishment,  and  vain  of  your  personal 
beauty,  and  vain  of  your  whole  personality.  You 
have  been  singing  in  church  all  your  life,  and  giving 
voice  to  the  aspirations  and  praises  of  others,  but,  prob- 
ably, there  has  never,  in  all  that  time,  gone  up  from 
your  heart  a  single  offering  to  Him  who  bestowed  upon 
you  your  excellent  gift.  You  have,  during  all  your  life, 
on  all  occasions,  simg  to  men,  and  not  to  God.  As 
your  voice  has  swelled  out  over  choir  and  congregation, 
you  have  been  only  thoughtful  of  the  admiration  you 
were  exciting  in  the  minds  of  those  who  were  listen- 
ing,  and  have  always  been  rather  seeking  praise  for 
yourself  than  giving  praise  to  yom*  Maker. 

This  love  of  admiration  and  praise  has  been,  then, 
the  mainspring  of  your  life ;  and  no  man  or  woman 


To  F.  Mendelffohn  Jones.  47 

can  be  even  decent  with  no  higher  motive  of  life  than 
this.  With  this  motive  predominant,  you  have  grown 
superlatively  selfish.  You  refuse  to  share  your  earnings 
with  your  wife  and  children,  because  such  a  policy 
would  detract  from  your  personal  charms,  or  your  per- 
sonal comforts.  You  quarrel  with  every  man  of  your 
profession,  because  you  are  afraid  that  he  will  detract 
somewhat  from  the  glory  which  you  imagine  has  settled 
around  you.  Your  mouth  is  constantly  filled  with 
detraction  of  your  rivals.  In  the  practice  of  your  pro- 
fession, you  are  thrown  into  contact  with  soft  and  sym- 
pathetic women,  who  are  charmed  by  your  voice,  and 
your  face,  and  your  style,  and  your  villainously  smooth 
and  sanctimonious  manners,  and  they  become  easy 
victims  to  your  desire  for  personal  conquest.  Thus 
has  music  become  to  you  only  an  instrument  for  the 
gratification  of  your  greed  for  admiration,  and;  among 
other  things,  a  means  for  winning  personal  power 
over  the  weak  and  wayward  women  whom  you 
encounter. 

Life  always  takes  on  the  character  of  its  motive.  It 
is  not  the  music  which  has  injured  you  :  it  is  not  the 
music  which  injures  any  one  of  the  great  brotherhood 
and  sisterhood  of  vicious  genius.  There  are  those 
among  musicians  who  can  plead  the  power  of  great 
passions  as  their  apology  for  great  vices.  No  great 
musician  is  possible  without  great  j)assions.     No  man 


48  Letters  to  the  Jonefes. 

without  intense  human  sympathies  in  all  dii'ections  can 
ever  be  a  great  singer,  or  a  great  musician  of  any  kind ; 
and  these  sympathies,  in  a  life  subject  to  great  exalta- 
tions and  depressions,  lead  their  possessor  only  too  often 
into  vices  that  degrade  him  and  his  art.  But  you  are 
not  a  great  musician,  and  I  doubt  very  much  whether 
you  have  great  passions.  I  think  you  are  a  diddler 
and  a  make-believe.  I  think  your  vices  are  affectations, 
in  a  considerable  degree,  and  that  you  indulge  in  them 
only  so  far  as  you  imagine  they  will  make  you  inter- 
esting. 

Tlicre  is  something  very  demoralizing  in  all  pursuits 
that  depend  for  their  success  upon  the  popular 
applause.  We  see  it  no  more  in  public  singing  than 
in  acting,  and  no  more  in  acting  than  in  politics. 
I  doubt  whether  more  singers  than  politicians  are 
ruined  by  the  character  of  then-  pursuits.  A  man  who 
makes  it  the  business  of  his  life  to  seek  office  at  the 
hands  of  the  people,  and  who  administers  the  affairs  of 
office  so  as  to  secure  the  i:)opular  applause,  becomes 
morally  as  rotten  as  the  rottenest  of  your  profession. 

I  never  hear  of  an  American  girl  going  abroad  to 
study  music,  for  the  purpose  of  fitting  herself  for  a 
public  musical  career,  without  a  pang.  A  musical 
education,  an  introduction  to  public  musical  life,  and  a 
few  years  of  that  life,  are  almost  certain  ruin  for  any 
woman.     Some  escaj^e  this  ruin,  it  is  true,  but  there 


are  temptations  laid  for  every  step  of  their  life.  They 
find  their  success  in  the  hands  of  men  who  demand 
more  than  money  for  wages.  They  find  their  personal 
charms  set  over  against  the  personal  charms  of  others. 
Their  whole  life  is  filled  with  rivalries  and  jealousies. 
They  find  themselves  constantly  thro^vn  into  intimate 
association  oi;  the  stage  with  men  who  subject  them- 
selves to  no  Christian  restraint — who  can  hardly  be 
said  to  have  had  a  Christian  education.  They  are  con- 
stantly acting  in  operas  the  whole  dramatic  relish  of 
which  is  found  in  equivocal  situations,  or  openly  licen- 
tious revelations.  In  such  •  circumstances  as  these,  a 
woman  must  be  a  marvel  of  modesty  and  a  miracle  of 
grace  to  escape  contamination.  I  do  not  believe  there 
is  a  woman  in  the  world  who  ever  came  out  of  a  public 
musical  career  as  good  a  woman  as  she  entered  it.  She 
may  have  escaped  with  an  imtarnished  name — she  may 
have  preserved  her  standing  in  society,  or  even  height- 
ened it,  but  in  her  inmost  soul  she  knows  that  the 
pure  spirit  of  her  girlhood  is  gone. 

It  is  the  dream,  I  suppose,  of  most  women  who 
undertake  a  musical  career,  that,  after  winning  money 
and  fame,  they  shall  settle  down  mto  domestic  life 
gracefully,  and  be  happy  in  retirement.  Alas !  this 
is  one  of  the  dreams  that  very  rarely  "  come  true." 
The  greed  for  popular  applause,  once  tasted,  knows  no 
relenting.    The  public  life  of  women  unfits  them  for 


50  Letters  to  the  Jonefes. 

domestic  life,  and  the  contaminations  of  a  public  sing- 
ing woman's  position  render  it  almost  impossible  for 
her  to  be  married  out  of  her  circle  ;  so  that  a  woman 
who  sj^ends  ten  years  on  the  stage  usually  spends  her 
life  there,  or  does  worse.  I  do  not  wonder  at  the  old 
professor's  warning  against  singing  women,  or  singing 
men.  It  is  enough  to  break  do'vvn  anj*  man's  or  wo- 
man's self-respect  to  be  dependent  for  bread  and  repu- 
tation upon  the  applause  of  a  capricious  public — to 
devote  the  whole  energies  of  one's  being  to  the  winning 
of  a  few  clappings  of  the  hand  and  a  few  tosses  of  the 
handkerchief,  and  to  feel  that  bread,  and  success  of  the 
life-purpose,  depend  on  these  few  clappings  and  tosses. 
I  have  a  theory  that  it  is  demoralizing  to  pursue, 
as  a  business,  any  graceful  accomplishment  which  was 
only  intended  to  minister  to  the  pleasure  and  recreation 
of  toiling  men  and  women.  I  have  not  read  history 
correctly  if  it  be  not  true  that  the  artists  of  all  ages 
have  been  generally  men  of  many  vices.  There  have 
been  men  of  pure  character  among  them  always,  but, 
as  a  class,  they  have  not  been  men  whom  we  should 
select  for  Sunday  school  superintendents,  or  as  husbands 
for  our  daughters.  If  you,  Felix  Mendelssohn  Jones, 
had  been  a  tailor,  and  had  worked  hard  at  your  busi- 
ness, and  only  used  your  talent  for  music  in  the  social 
circle  and  the  village  choir  on  Sunday,  and  been  just  as 
vain  as  you  are  to-day,  you  would  have  been  a  better 


To  F.  Mendelffohn  Jones.  51 

man  than  you  are  now,  I  think.  I  think  this  devotion 
of  your  life  to  music  has  had  the  tendency,  independ- 
ently of  all  other  influences,  to  make  you  intellectually 
an  ass  and  morally  a  goat. 

Whether  there  is  soundness  in  this  theory  or  not, 
singing  as  a  pursuit  must  come  under  the  general  law 
which  makes  devotion  to  one  idea  a  dwarfing  process. 
A  man  who   gives  his  life  to  music — who  becomes 
absorbed  by  it — and  who   really  knows  nothing  else, 
will  necessarily  be  a  very  small  specimen  of  a  man. 
The  artist  is  developed  at  the  expense  of  the  man. 
Music  is  thrown  entirely  out   of  its   legitimate   and 
healthy  relations   to  his  life,  and  he  makes  that  an 
object  and  end  of  life  which  should  only  minister  to  an 
end  far  higher.     "When  a  man  undertakes  to  clothe  his 
manhood  from  materials  furnished  by  a  single  pursuit, 
even  when  that  pursuit  is  so  pure  and  beautiful  as  that 
of  music,  he  runs  short  of  cloth  at  once.     I  have  no 
doubt  that  one  of  the  principal  reasons  why  music  has 
such  a  dwarfing  effect  upon  a  multitude  of  those  who 
make  it  the  pursuit  of  their  lives,  is,  that  it  is  so  fasci- 
nating and  so  absorbing — ^because  it  possesses  such  a 
power  to  drive  out  from  the  mind  and  life  everything 
else.    There  is  no  denying  the  fact  that,  in  the  eye  of 
a  practical  business  man,  musical  accomplishments  in 
men   are   regarded  as  a  damage  to   character  and  a 
hinderance  to  success.    It  is  pretty  nearly  the  universal 


52  Letters  to  the  Jonefes. 

belief  that  a  man  who  is  very  much  devoted  to 
music  is  rarely  good  for  anything  else.  This  may  not 
be  true — and  I  doubt  whether  it  is  strictly  true — but 
it  is  true  enough,  and  has  always  been  true  enough  to 
make  it  a  rule  among  those  who  have  no  tune  for  nice 
distinctions  and  exceptional  cases. 

I  do  not  wonder,  Felix  Mendelssohn  Jones,  that 
intellectually  you  are  a  dwarf.  I  do  not  wonder  that 
men  who  have  nerve  and  muscle  and  common  sense, 
and  practical  acquaintance  with  the  great  concerns  of 
life,  and  a  share  in  the  world's  earnest  work,  should 
hold  you  in  contempt  for  other  reasons  than  those  which 
relate  to  your  morals.  What  did  you  ever  study 
besides  music  ?  Upon  what  subject  of  human  interest 
are  you  informed  except  music  ?  Upon  what  topic  of 
conversation  are  you  at  all  at  home  unless  it  be  music  ? 
Why  is  it  that  you  have  nothing  to  say  when  those 
questions  are  discussed  which  relate  to  the  political, 
moral,  social,  and  industrial  life  of  the  race  or  nation 
to  which  you  belong  ?  No  man  has  a  right  to  be  more 
a  musician  than  a  man,  and  no  musician  has  a  right  to 
complain  when  men  who  are  men  hold  him  in  contempt 
because  he  is  the  slave  of  an  art  of  which  he  should 
rather  be  the  kingly  possessor.  There  is  a  vast  deal  of 
nonsense  afloat  in  the  world  about  being  married  to 
music,  or  married  to  art,  as  if  music  were  a  woman  of 
a  very  seductive  and  exacting  character,  and  musicians 


To  F.  Mendelffohn  Jones.  53 

were  very  gallant  and  knightly  people  who  make  it 
their  business  to  bend  before  a  lifted  eyebrow,  and 
follow  the  fickle  swing  of  petticoats  to  death  and  the 
worst  that  follows  it. 

There  is  another  cause  that  has  operated  to  make 
you  much  less  a  man  than  you  might  have  been  under 
other  circumstances,  and  this  is  almost  inseparable 
from  your  life  as  a  public  singer.  Your  life  has  been 
a  vagabond  life.  You,  in  your  hmnble  way,  passing 
from  village  to  village,  have  only  had  a  taste  of  that 
dissipation  of  travel  which  the  more  famous  members 
of  your  profession  are  obliged  to  suffer.  From  the 
time  a  public  singer  begins  his  career  until  he  closes  it, 
he  has  no  home.  He  is  never  recognized  as  a  member 
of  society.  He  is  obliged  to  be  all  things  to  all  men, 
everywhere.  He  has  no  nationality.  He  shouts  for 
the  stars  and  stripes  in  New  York,  but  would  just  as 
easily  shout  for  the  stars  and  bars  wherever  they  float. 
He  is  equally  at  home  in  England  and  France  and 
Italy,  and  salutes  any  flag  under  which  he  can  win 
plaudits  and  provender.  He  has  no  politics,  he  has  no 
religion,  "  to  mention,"  he  has  no  stake  in  permanent 
society  whatever.  The  institutions  of  Christianity, 
public  schools,  educational  schemes  and  systems,  the 
great,  permanent  charities,  mimicipal  and  neighborhood 
life — he  has  no  share  in  all  these.  He  rims  from  coim- 
try  to  country  and  from  capital  to  capital,  or  scours  the 


54  Letters  to  the  Jonefes. 

country,  and  does  not  cease  his  travels  until  life  or 
health  or  voice  is  gone.  It  is  impossible  for  any  man 
to  be  subjected  to  such  dissipation  as  this  without 
receiving  incalculable  damage  of  character.  He  can 
think  of  nothing  but  his  profession  under  these  cir- 
cumstances. He  can  have  no  healthy  social  life,  no 
home  influences,  no  recognized  position  in  religious  and 
poHtical  communities.  He  can  be  nothing  but  a  comet 
among  the  fixed  stars  and  regularly  revohdng  systems 
of  the  world,  making  a  great  show  for  the  rather  nebu- 
lous head  which  he  carries,  occupying  more  blue  sky 
for  a  brief  period  than  belongs  to  him,  and  then  passing 
out  of  sight  and  out  of  memory,  leaving  no  track. 

I  might  go  further,  and  show  how  nearly  impossible 
it  is  for  a  public  singer,  who  sings  everything  every- 
where, who  wanders  over  the  world  and  lives  upon  the 
breath  of  popular  applause,  whose  life  seems  almost 
necessarily  made  up  of  intrigues  and  jealousies,  to  be  a 
religious  man.  No  matter  what  the  stage  of  the  theatre 
or  the  platform  of  the  concert  room  might  be,  or  may 
have  been  ;  we  know  that  now  they  are  not  the  places 
where  piety  toward  God  is  in  such  a  state  of  high  culti- 
vation that  good  people  throng  before  them  for  reli- 
gious motive  and  inspiration.  The  whole  atmosphere 
of  a  public  singer's  life  is  sensuous.  Like  the  beggarly 
old  reprobate  in  Rome  who  obtained  a  living  by  sitting 
to  artists  for  his  "  rehgious  expression,"  they  coin  their 


To  F.  Mendelffohn  Jones.  '  55 


Te  Deums  into  dollars,  and  regard  a  mass  as  only  a 
style  of  music  to  be  treated  in  a  professional  way  for 
other  people  who  have  sufficient  interest  in  it  to  pay 
for  the  service.  Man  is  a  weak  creature,  and  it  takes 
a  great  many  influences  to  keep  him  in  the  path  of 
religious  duty,  and  preserve  his  sympathy  with  those 
grand  spiritual  truths  which  relate  to  his  noblest 
development  and  his  highest  destiny.  These  influences 
are  not  to  be  secured  by  a  roving  life,  and  constantly 
shifting  society,  and  ministering  to  the  tastes  and 
seeking  tlie  favor  of  the  vulgar  crowd. 

On  the  whole,  Mr.  Felix  Mendelssohn  Jones,  I  do 
not  wonder  that  you  are  no  better  than  joM  are.  You 
have  really  had  more  influences  operating  against  you 
than  I  had  considered  when  I  began  to  write  this 
letter  to  you.  IsTevertheless,  you  ought  to  be  ashamed 
of  yourself  and  institute  a  reform.  Recast  you  life. 
If  you  cannot  settle  down  permanently  in  your  profes- 
sion in  some  town  large  enough  to  support  you,  and 
become  a  decent  husband  to  your  wife  and  father  to 
your  children,  and  take  upon  your  shoulders  yom-  por- 
tion of  the  burdens  of  organized  society,  why,  quit 
your  profession,  and  go  into  some  other  business.  I 
know  you  furnish  a  very  slender  basis  for  building  a 
man  upon,  but  you  can  at  least  cease  to  be  a  nuisance. 

I  know  a  good  many  musical  men  and  women  whom 
music  or  devotion  to  music  has  not  damaged ;  but  these 


66  Letters  to  the  Jonefes. 

men  and  women  have  entered  as  permanent  elements 
into  the  society  in  which  they  live,  and  are  something 
more  than  musicians.  Singing  is  the  most  charming  of 
all  accomplishments  when  it  is  the  voice  of  a  noble  na- 
ture and  a  generous  culture  ;  and  all  music,  when  it  pre- 
serves its  legitimate  relations  to  the  great  interests  of 
human  society,  is  refining  and  liberalizing  in  its  in- 
fluence. But  when  music  monopolizes  the  mind  of  a 
man ;  when  it  becomes  the  vehicle  through  which  he 
ministers  to  his  personal  vanity ;  when  it  either  becomes 
degraded  to  be  the  instrument  for  procuring  his  bread, 
or  elevated  to  the  position  of  a  master  passion,  it  spoils 
him.  I  pray  that  no  friend  or  child  of  mine  may 
become  professionally  a  singing  man  or  singing 
woman.  All  the  circumstances  that  cluster  about  such 
a  life,  all  the  influences  associated  with  it,  and  the 
great  majority  of  its  natural  tendencies  are  against  the 
development  and  preservation  of,  a  Christian  style  of 
life  and  character,  and,  consequently,  against  the 
best  form  of  happiness  here  and  the  only  form 
hereafter. 


THE    FOURTH    LETTER. 

STo  Pans  ^acbs  |otrcs,  ^Ijocmaktr. 

CONCERNING  UJS  HABIT   OF  BUSINESS  LYING. 

YOU  have  always  seemed  to  me  to  be  an  anoma- 
lous sort  of  personage.  On  the  street,  you  are 
a  respectable  and  decent  man.  I  would  take  your  note 
for  any  sum  you  would  be  likely  to  borrow,  and  rely 
upon  its  payment  at  maturity.  Nay,  I  would  accept 
your  Avord  of  honor  at  any  time,  when  your  coat  is  on 
and  the  wax  is  off  your  lingers,  with  entire  confidence. 
You  have  been  intrusted  with  responsibilities  in  civil 
and  social  affairs,  and  have  never  betrayed  them.  You 
are  a  good  husbond,  father,  friend,  and  citizen,  but  you 
stand  behind  your  counter  from  morning  imtil  night,  and 
lie  as  continuously  and  cooUy  as  if  you  were  a  flowing 
fomitain  of  falsehood.  You  will  not  assail  me  in  the 
street  because  I  so  plainly  tell  you  this,  for  you  know 


58  Letters  to  the  Jonefes. 

it  is  true,  and  that  I  like  you  too  well  to  insult  you.  You 
knoAV  that  you  never  made  a  pair  of  boots  for  me  that 
did  not  cost  you  more  lies  than  they  cost  me  dollars. 

I  have  stood  before  you,  on  some  occasions,  thor- 
oughly astonished  at  the  facility  and  ingenuity  and 
boldness  with  which  you  lied  your  way  out  from  among 
the  fragments  of  your  broken  engagements.  The  glib- 
ness  of  your  tongue,  and  the  candor  of  your  tone,  and 
the  immovable  sincerity  of  your  features,  and  the  half- 
discouraged,  half-wounded  expression  of  face  and 
voice  with  which  you  apologized  for  your  failure  to 
keep  your  pledges,  were  really  overwhelming.  I  have 
sometimes  wondered  whether  you  did  not  suppose  you 
were  telling  the  truth — whether  you  had  not,  by  some 
odd  hallucination,  come  to  believe  that  the  causes  of 
your  failure  to  keep  your  pledges  had  a  real  and  per- 
manent existence.  Never  was  so  much  sickness  suffered 
by  journeymen  shoemakers  as  by  yours.  Never  had 
shoemakers  such  sickly  children,  and  never  had  shoe- 
makers so  many  children  born  to  them.  It  is  a  strange 
fatality,  too,  that  always  keeps  your  best  workmen  on 
a  spree.  I  have  never  known  any  class  of  artisans 
driak  so  much  as  those  you  employ.  You  are  always 
getting  out  of  the  right  kind  of  leather  at  the  wrong 
time,  or  suffering  by  some  occurrence  that  renders  it 
impossible  for  you  to  keep  your  promise  and,  at  the  same 
time,  make  just  such  a  pair  of  boots  or  shoes  as  you 


To  Hans  Sachs  Jones.  59 

feel  particular  about  making  for  your  particular  cus- 
tomers. You  resort  to  the  most  transparent  flattery  to 
keep  your  patrons  good-natured,  but  there  is  not  a  man 
or  woman  who  enters  your  shop  who  believes  a  word 
you  utter.  Day  after  day,  and  week  after  week,  your 
promises  are  broken  with  regard  to  a  single  job,  and 
your  patrons  smile  in  your  face  at  the  excuses  which 
your  tongue  holds  ready  at  all  times  ;  and  you  know 
that  they  know  you  are  lying. 

You  are  not  a  sinner  in  this  respect  above  all  shoe- 
makers, and  shoemakers  are  not  sinners  in  this  respect 
above  all  artisans  and  tradesmen.  You  happen  to  be 
a  very  perfect  specimen  of  a  class  of  men  wlio  work 
for  the  public  in  the  performance  of  essential  every- 
day jobs  in  the  various  mechanical  arts.  They  do  not 
all  lie  as  much  as  you  do,  but  many  of  them  lie  in  the 
same  way,  and  for  the  same  reason.  They  are  not  all 
a.s  cool  about  it  as  you  are,  and  most  of  them  are  much 
less  fertile  and  skilful  than  you  are,  but  lying  is  their 
daily  resort. 

Now,  what  is  there  in  your  business,  or  in  the  rela- 
tions to  society  of  that  class  of  employments  to  which 
yours  belongs,  to  develop  the  untruthfulness  which  all 
must  admit  attaches  to  it  in  some  degree  ?  In  the 
first  place,  you  began  business  in  a  very  small  way, 
and  were  able  to  keep  your  promises,  never  making 
any  that  you  did  not  intend  to  keep.     Business  in- 


60  Letters  to  the  Jonefes. 


creased,  and  you  found  among  your  best  customers — 
those  whose  patronage  you  most  desired  to  retain — a 
degree  of  unreasonable  impatience  which  you  could 
not  withstand.  You  were  imperiously  urged  into 
the  making  of  pledges  for  the  delivery  of  work 
which  you  could  not  make,  consistently  with  your 
previously  existing  engagements.  You  were  desirous 
to  please ;  strong  wills,  backed  by  money,  were 
brought  to  bear  upon  you;  the  keeping  of  your 
promise  looked  possible,  even  if  not  altogether  prac- 
ticable ;  and  you  promised.  You  felt,  however,  that 
somebody  was  to  be  disappointed,  and  you  undertook 
to  find  an  excuse  which  would  lift  the  burden,  of 
blame  from  your  own  shoulders.  You  did  not  dare 
to  stand  before  your  customer  a  voluntary  delinquent ; 
so,  when  he  came,  and  you  were  not  ready  to  see  him, 
you  justified  yourself  by  throwing  the  blame  upon 
others,  or  upon  circumstances  over  which  you  had  no 
control.  He  may  have  believed  you  at  first,  but  his 
faith  in  you  soon  wore  out. 

You  learned,  at  length,  that  people  loved  to  have 
their  work  promised  early,  and  that  they  wovild  take 
your  apologies  for  failure  goodnaturedly ;  and  you, 
ran  into  the  habit  of  promising  work  early,  with  the 
expectation,  if  not  the  direct  intention,  to  break  your 
promise.  I  have  given  you  jobs  when  I  knew  you 
lied  while   tab'ng  them,  and  expected  to  lie  a  great 


To  Hans  Sachs  Jones.  61 

many  times  before  you  finished  them.  You  have  told 
me  repeatedly  that  work  was  nearly  finished  when  I 
knew  it  had  not  been  begxm ;  and  all  this  for  the 
purpose  of  pleasing  me,  and  saving  yourself  from 
blame.  You  were  not  naturally  untruthful,  and  you 
are  not  imtruthfid  now  where  your  business  is  not 
concerned,  but  in  your  business  you  have  made  false- 
hood the  rule  of  your  daily  life.  Your  promises  are 
always  in  advance  of  your  power  to  perform,  and 
the  breaking  of  them  has  become  habitual. 

It  is  painful  to  see  a  man — otherwise  so  respect- 
able— unreliable  in  the  place  where  men  meet  him 
most ;  for  it  weakens  his  hold  upon  the  popular  regard, 
and  cannot  fail  to  depreciate  his  own  self-re§pect. 
You  must  feel  ashamed,  at  times,  to  realize  that  your 
word  is  not  believed,  and  to  know  that  you  have  not 
a  customer  in  the  world  who  feels  at  all  sure  about 
getting  work  done  by  you  until  it  really  is  done  and 
in  his  hands.  The  kind  of  life  you  lead  must  also  be 
an  exceedingly  imcomfortable  one.  Now,  my  friend, 
there  is  not  the  slightest  necessity  for  this,  and  there 
is  no  apology  for  it.  It  had  a  very  natural  beginning, 
but  you  ought  to  have  learned  long  ago  that  it  was 
not  requisite  either  to  your  prosperity  or  your  comfort. 
You  get  your  work  in  spite  of  your  lying,  and  not 
in  consequence  of  it.  That  is  the  only  thing  people 
have  against  you.    They  give  you  their  custom  because 


62  Letters  to  the  Jonefes. 

you  are  a  good  workman,  and  for  nothing  else  ;  and  no 
man  leaves  your  shop  for  another  except  for  the  reason 
that  he  cannot  depend  upon  your  word.  You  never 
made  a  dollar  or  saved  a  friend  by  all  the  lies  you 
have  told.  Honesty,  reliableness,  truthfulness — these 
are  at  a  premium  in  all  the  markets  of  the  world ;  and 
you  have  made  yourself  miserable  and  contemptible 
throughout  your  life  for  nothing.  Your  business  is 
always  at  loose  ends,  everybody  is  crowding  you, 
many  of  them  abuse  you,  and  it  all  comes  of  your 
promising  to  do  work  before  it  is  possible  for  you  to 
do  it.  Not  a  decent  man,  whose  custom  is  worth 
keeping,  enters  your  shop  who  would  not  wait  your 
time  patiently,  if  he  could  rely  upon  having  his  job 
upon  the  day  promised. 

I  have  no  doubt  that,  as  you  read  this  letter,  you 
say  to  yourself  that  I  talk  as  if  a  man  could  always 
keep  promises,  honestly  made,  and  as  if  there  were 
men  in  the  world  who  never  break  promises.  I  know, 
indeed,  that  there  is  no  man  who  can  so  thoroughly 
depend  upon  circmnstances,  or  so  control  them,  as 
always  to  be  sure  to  keep  his  pledges.  Sickness 
happens  to  all.  Calamity  in  some  form  comes  to  all. 
Drunkenness  sometimes  overtakes  a  journeyman  shoe- 
maker, though,  to  tell  the  truth,  such  men  are  not  com- 
monly employed  by  masters  who  care  about  keeping 
their  word.     Men  of  business  punctilio,  and   regular 


To  Hans  Sachs  Jones.  63 

business  habits,  can  always  secure  the  best  workmen. 
It  is  only  the  unreliable  masters  who  are  obliged  to  ac- 
cept unreliable  hands,  though  I  would  by  no  means  inti- 
mate that  I  believe  in  yoiir  representations  concerning 
the  drunkenness  of  your  workmen.  Your  men  are  shame- 
fully beUed ;  and  if  they  knew  how  you  slander  them 
they  would  rebel.  No,  I  admit  that  the  most  prompt 
and  punctual  men  must  fail,  through  unforeseen  imped- 
iments, to  keep  all  their  promises ;  but  such  men  do  not 
lie  their  way  out  of  their  difficulty,  and  are  only  the 
more  careful  about  making  and  keeping  their  engage- 
ments afterward. 

To  me,  one  of  the  most  admirable  things  in  the 
world  is  business  punctilio.  I  think  it  is  rare  to  find 
very  bad  men  among  thorough  business  men.  I  do 
not  mean  to  say  that  a  good  business  man  is  necessarily 
religious,  or  even  necessarily  without  \'ices.  I  mean, 
simply,  that  it  is  difficult  to  be  strictly  honest  in  busi- 
ness, and  sensitive  in  all  matters  pertaining  to  business 
engagements,  and  thoroughly  punctual  in  the  fulfil- 
ment of  all  business  obligations,  and  at  the  same  time 
to  be  loose  in  morals  and  dissipated  in  personal  habits. 
I  have  great  respect  for  those  rigid  laws  of  the  count- 
ing room  which  regulate  the  dealings  between  man 
and  man,  and  which  make  the  counting  room  as  exact 
in  all  matters  of  time  and  exchange  as  a  banking  house 
— which  ignore  friendship,  afiection,  and  all  jjersonal 


G4  Letters  to  the  Jonefes. 

considerations  whatsoever — which  place  neighbors 
and  brothers  on  the  same  platform  with  enemies 
and  aliens,  and  which  make  an  autocrat  of  an  accoxmt- 
ant,  who  is,  at  the  same  time,  strictly  an  obedient  sub- 
ject of  his  own  laws.  I  say  it  is  hard  for  a  man  to 
enter  as  a  perfectly  harmonious  element  into  this  grand 
system  of  business,  and  submit  himself  to  its  rigid 
rules,  and  maiatain  his  position  in  it  with  perfect 
integrity,  and,  at  the  same  time,  be  a  very  bad  man. 
To  a  certain  extent,  he  bows  to  and  obeys  a  high 
standard  of  life.  He  may  not  always  recognize  fully 
the  moral  element  which  it  embodies.  He  may  take 
a  selfish  view  of  the  whole*  matter ;  but  he  cannot  be 
entirely  insensible  to  the  principle  of  personal  honor 
which  it  involves,  or  fail  to  be  influenced  by  the  per- 
sonal habits  which  it  enforces.  Some  of  the  best 
business  men  I  have  ever  known,  have  been  the  most 
charitable  men  I  have  ever  known.  Men  who  have 
acquired  wealth  by  rigid  adherence  to  business  integ- 
rity, and  who  have  sometimes  been  deemed  harsh 
and  hard  by  those  with  whom  they  have  had  business 
relations,  have  shown  a  liberality  and  a  generosity 
toward  objects  of  charity  which  have  placed  them 
among  the  world's  benefactors.  Men  who  have 
exacted  the  last  fraction  of  a  cent  with  one  hand,  in 
the  way  of  business,  have  disbursed  thousands  of 
dollars  with  the  other,  in  the  way  of  charity. 


On  another  side  of  this  subject,  it  may  be  stated 
that  it  is  not  possible  for  a  man  to  be  careless  in  busi- 
ness afiairs,  or  immindful  of  his  business  obligations, 
without  being  weak  or  rotten  in  his  personal  character. 
Show  me  a  man  who  never  pays  his  notes  when  they 
are  due,  and  who  shuns  the  payment  of  his  bills  when 
it  is  possible,  and  does  both  these  things  as  a  habit, 
and  I  shall  see  a  man  whose  moral  character  is,  beyond 
all  question,  bad.  "We  have  had  illustrious  examples 
of  this  lack  of  business  exactness.  We  have  had  groat 
men  who  were  in  the  habit  of  borrowing  money 
without  repaying  it,  or  apologizing  for  not  repaying 
it.  We  have  had  great  men  whose  business  habits 
were  simply  scandalous — who  never  paid  a  bill  unless 
urged  and  worried,  and  who  expended  for  their  per- 
sonal gratification  every  cent  of  money  they  could  lay 
their  hands  upon.  These  delinquencies  have  been 
apologized  for  as  among  the  eccentricities  of  genius,  or 
as  that  immindfulness  of  small  affairs  which  naturally 
attends  all  greatness  of  intellect  and  intellectual  effort ; 
but  the  world  has  been  too  easy  with  them,  altogether. 
I  could  name  great  men — and  the  names  of  some  of 
them  arise  before  the  readers  of  this  letter — who  were 
atrociously  dishonest.  I  do  not  care  how  great  these 
men  were.  I  do  not  cai'e  how  many  amiable  and 
admirable  traits  they  possessed.  They  were  dishonest 
and  imtrustworthy  men  in  their  business   relations. 


66  Letters  to  the  Jonefes. 


and  that  simple  fact  condemns  them.  I  am  ready- 
to  believe  anything  bad  of  a  man  who  habitually 
neglects  to  fulfil  his  business  obligations.  Such  a 
man  is  certainly  rotten  at  heart.  He  is  not  to  be 
trusted  with  a  public  responsibility,  or  a  rimi  bottle, 
or  a  woman. 

Now,  Mr.  Hans  Sachs  Jones,  you  have  customers 
of  this  class.  Will  you  permit  me  to  ask  you  how 
you  like  them?  Some  of  these  men  are  poor,  but 
quite  as  many  of  them  are  rich.  You  lied  to  them 
a  great  many  times  before  they  made  theu'  little  bills 
with  you,  and  they  have  lied  to  you  a  great  many 
times  since.  When  you  have  had  money  to  raise, 
they  have  promised  to  furnish  it  to  you,  and  then  they 
have  failed  to  keep  their  pledges.  Not  unfrequently, 
when  you  have  upbraided  them  for  disappointing 
you,  they  have  retorted  by  teUing  you  that  you  made 
them  wait  for  their  work,  and  that  it  is  perfectly 
proper  that  you  should  wait  for  your  pay.  Their 
reply  was  a  fair  one,  so  far  as  you  were  concerned. 
It  was  just  as  much  a  matter  of  business  honor  that 
you  should  keep  your  promises,  as  it  was  that  they 
should  keep  theirs.  It  was  just  as  wrong  for  you  to 
promise  your  work  before  you  could  give  it  to  them, 
as  it  was  for  your  customers  to  promise  to  pay  you 
before  they  could  pay  you,  or  before  they  intended 
to  pay  you.    In  your  heart,  you  think  these  men  are 


To  Hans  Sachs  Jones.  67 

very  mean,  and  in  their  hearts  they  think  that  you 
are  just  as  mean  as  they  are,  and  they  are  right.  Their 
plea  leaves  you  defenceless,  and  they  banter  and  badger 
you  until  you  become  disgusted  with  your  business 
and  yourself.  Oh !  if  you  had  never  given  these 
customers  of  yours  an  advantage  over  you,  by  your 
constant  failures  to  keep  your  word  with  them,  you 
would  be  worth  a  good  many  more  dollars  to-day" 
than  you  are. 

Then  you  should  remember  that  you  owe  a  debt 
of  honor  to  your  guild.  A  very  admirable  thing 
among  tradesmen  of  the  same  class  is  that  esprit  de 
corps  which  enables  them  to  join  hands  in  a  recognized 
community  of  honor  and  of  interest,  and  to  look  upon 
their  trade  as  the  kind  mother  that  feeds  them  and 
that  deserves  at  their  hands  the  treatment  due  from 
grateful  and  chivalrous  sons.  You  have  doubtless 
heard  of  associations  of  men  engaged  in  much  humbler 
employments  than  yours  (humbler  in  the  world's  judg- 
ment), that  really  won  the  respect  and  admiration  of 
the  communities  in  which  they  lived — men  who  felt 
strengthened  and  ennobled  by  their  association — men 
who  came  by  their  association  to  feel  the  slightest 
insult  offered  to  their  trade  as  a  personal  affront.  I 
say  that  this  esprit  de  corps  is  a  very  admirable  thing, 
and,  further,  that  it  gives,  or  may  give,  a  true  dignity 
to  any  honest  calling  under  heaven.    We  do  not  have 


68  Letters  to  the  Jonefes. 

so  much  of  this  in  this  country  as  we  ought  to  have. 
All  European  countries  are  ahead  of  us  in  this  matter, 
principally,  perhaps,  for  the  reason  that  in  those  coun- 
tries the  acquisition  and  pursuit  of  trades  are  more 
particularly  a  matter  of  legal  regulation.  Here  a  man 
may  set  up  a  trade  whether  he  ever  learned  it  or  not, 
and  few  learn  their  trades  thoroughly.  It  is  more 
difficult,  therefore,  to  seciu'e  community  of  feeling 
among  those  engaged  in  the  same  pursuits  here  than 
abroad ;  but  it  is  none  the  less  desirable  and  necessary, 
that,  amon^  good  workmen  like  yourself,  there  should 
be  brotherhood  of  feeling  and  interest — pride  and 
sympathy  of  guild.  It  would  give  '  you  dignity, 
protection,  respectability ;  and  you  would  feel  in 
all  your  business  transactions  that,  however  reckless 
you  might  be  of  disgrace  to  yourself,  you  have 
no  right  to  disgrace  your  business,  or  your  brother- 
hood. 

I  repeat,  then,  that  you  owe  a  debt  of  honor  to 
your  guild.  There  are  many  men  engaged  in  the 
same  calling  with  you  who  scorn  the  petty  arts  of 
falsehood  to  which  you  resort.  They  are  men  of 
character — men  who  never  make  a  promise  which  they 
do  not  intend  to  keep,  and  who  faithfully  and  con- 
scientiously strive  to  keep  every  promise  which  they 
make.  These  are  the  men  who  give  to  your  calling 
all  the  respectability  which   it   possesses.     All   labor 


To  Hans  Sachs  Jones.  69 

of  the  hands,  pursued  for  bread,  is  honorable,  and 
honorable  alike.  One  trade  is  respectable  above 
another  only  in  consequence  of  the  superior  respecta- 
bility of  the  class  of  men  engaging  in  it.  Now  you 
have  a  right,  in  a  certain  sense,  to  disgrace  yourself; 
but  you  have  no  right  to  disgrace  your  trade  and 
your  guild.  Your  devotion  to  this  idea  should  be 
almost  religious;  for,  in  a  certain  degree,  you  have 
the  reputation  of  the  whole  class  with  which  you  are 
identified  in  interest  in  your  keeping,  and  you  are 
boimd  by  every  principle  of  justice  and  honor  not  to 
betray  it. 

I  have  not  appealed,  in  what  I  have  said  to  you  on 
this  subject,  to  those  higher  motives  of  conduct  which 
grow  out  of  your  relations  to  the  God  of  truth,  nor  do 
I  propose  to.  You  know,  just  as  well  as  I  do,  that 
your  system  of  business  lying  is  morally  wrong.  I 
simply  wish,  in  closing  this  letter,  to  call  your  atten- 
tion to  the  fact  that  you  have  arrived  at  the  point 
where  your  conscience  ceases  to  trouble  you.  You 
do  not  use  profane  language.  You  are  shocked  when 
you  hear  others  use  it,  but  you  are  aware  that  many 
of  your  acquaintances  swear  from  habit,  and,  by 
habitual  swearing,  have  ceased  to  look  upon  their 
profanity  as  profanity.  They  take  the  names  of  God 
and  Jesus  Christ  in  vain,  and  call  for  curses  upon  the 
heads  even  of  their  friends,  without  a  thought  of  sin, 


70  Letters  to  the  Jonefes. 


and  -without  a  twinge  of  conscience.  Over  a  certain 
region  of  their  moral  sense  profanity  has  trampled, 
until  it  has  trampled  the  life  all  out  of  it.  So,  over  a 
certain  region  of  your  moral  sense,  these  lies  of  yours 
have  trod  their  daily  course,  untU  not  a  blade  of  grass 
or  a  flower  is  left  to  give  token  of  life,  or  breathe 
complaint  of  the  invaders.  They  have  trampled  out 
all  sensibility,  and  you  lie  without  feeling  it;  and 
when  you  are  detected  and  indignantly  rebuked,  as 
you  sometimes  are,  you  only  feel  your  detection  as 
an  inconvenience,  which  might  have  been  avoided  by 
more  ingenious  lying.  I  beg  you  to  discontinue  this 
ruinous  practice,  and  see  if  sensibility  will  not  once 
more  infoi-m  those  functions  of  your  moral  nature 
which  persistent  abuse  has  indurated  and  rendered 
useless.    • 


THE   FIFTH   LETTER.  • 

€a  (Ebbarb  ^ttnsoit  |otixs. 
coNCEBNiNa  nia  failure  to  yield  to  ms  convictions 

OF  DUTY. 

AS  I  write  your  name,  there  comes  before  me  the 
vision  of  a  fair-haired,  blue-eyed  boy,  who 
had  been  fed  by  smiles  and  pleasant  words  at  home  so 
constantly  that  his  whole  nature  had  been  sweetened 
by  them.  I  remember  how  you  used  to  look  up  into 
my  face  for  recognition  and  for  the  greeting  and  the 
smUe  which  you  had  learned  to  crave  and  to  expect  of 
everybody.  Into  few  faces  did  those  expectant  blue 
eyes  look  in  vain,  for  you  were  a  universal  favorite.  I 
remember  that  I  was  always  so  much  impressed  by 
your  pure  and  precious  nature  that  I  could  never 
resist  the  impulse  to  put  my  arm  around  you,  and 
draw  you  to  my  heart.  It  was  easy  to  love  you,  and 
sweet  to  be  loved  by  you ;  and  those  who  knew  your 


72  Letters  to  the  Jonefes. 

sainted  mother  knew  why  you  were  what  you  were 
in  personal  and  spiritual  loveliness.  That  mother  has 
been  dead  a  long  time,  but  do  you  not  sometimes 
recall  her  reason  for  giving  you  the  name  of  Edward 
Payson  ?  Ah,  yes  !  I  know  that  you  must  sometimes 
remember  that  in  her  heart  of  hearts — even  before  you 
were  born — she  dedicated  you  to  the  service  of  the 
Saviour  of  men,  and  that  she  crowned  you  with  a  name 
hallowed  by  a  wide  wealth  of  Christian  associations, 
that  she  might  be  reminded  of  her  gift  whenever  she 
pronounced  it.  The  absorbing  hope  of  her  life  was  to 
see  you  in  the  pulpit,  and  to  hear  you  preach  the 
everlasting  gospel.  To  compass  this  end,  she  would 
have  been  willing  to  work  her  fingers  to  the  bone ; 
to  live  in  want ;  to  deny  to  herself  every  worldly 
pleasure ;  nay,  to  lay  down  her  life  itself.  She  died, 
as  you  know,  without  seeing  the  attauunent  of  the 
object  for  which  she  had  labored  and  prayed  so 
ardently. 

"Well,  you  are  a  man ;  and  you  are  just  as  widely 
a  favorite  to-day  as  you  were  when  you  were  a  boy ; 
but  you  are  not  the  man  whom  your  mother  prayed 
you  might  become,  and  are  not  likely  to  be.  That  you 
are  stifling  convictions  of  duty  by  the  course  which  you 
are  pursuing  eveiy  man  knows  who  remembers  your 
early  training  and  the  nature  upon  which  that  training 
could  not  fail  to  leave  its  impress.   You  are  a  man  whom 


To  Edward  Payfon  Jones.  73 

everybody  loves — Avhom  everybody  praises — whom 
everybody  believes  to  be  in  a  measure  the  subject  of 
Christian  conviction — whom  everybody  believes  to  be, 
within  certain  limits,  controlled  by  Christian  principle  ; 
yet,  in  an  irreligious  community,  you  have  never,  in  a 
manly  way,  declared  youi'self  in  the  possession  and  on 
the  side  of  personal  Christianity.  Under  these  circum- 
stances, there  are  some  things  which  it  seems  to  me  to 
be  my  duty  to  say  to  you.     Will  you  read  them  ? 

Christianity  is  everything,  or  it  is  nothing — it  is 
divine,  or  it  is  nothing — it  has  a  right  to  the  entire 
control  of  your  life,  or  it  has  no  claims  at  all.  Is  it 
necessary  that  I  should  argue  to  you  the  transcendent 
worth,  the  divine  origin,  or  the  grand  claims  of  that 
religion  which  made  an  angel  of  your  mother,  and 
transformed  the  little  room  in  which  she  died  into 
heaven's  gateway  ?  Is  it  necessary  for  me  to  assure 
you  that  these  convictions  of  duty  which  haunt 
you  everywhere,  which  assert  themselves  in  your 
heart  in  every  scene  of  questionable  mirth  and  care- 
less society,  are  not  superstitions  engendered  by  early 
education  in  error  ?  Is  it  necessary  that  I  should  try 
to  prove  to  you  that  a  life  which  does  not  acknowl- 
edge a  rule  of  action  imposed  by  the  Author  of  life 
must  necessarily  be  a  life  of  transgression  and  the 
fruits  of  transgression  ?  Not  at  all.  You  do  not  ask 
me   to   do   this.     You    know — you   are   entirely   con- 


74  Letters  to  the  Joncfes. 

vinced — that  you  owe  the  devoted  allegiance  of  your 
heart,  the  obedience  of  your  will,  and  the  gift  of  your 
life  to  that  religion  in  which  alone  abides  the  secret 
of  the  purification  and  salvation  of  yourself  and  your 
race.  You  are  convinced  that,  without  Christianity, 
this  world  would  be  as  dark  as  the  infernal  shades — 
that  it  alone  gives  significance  to  life — that  it  alone 
can  give  such  direction  to  its  issues  that  they  shall 
rise  to  everlasting  harmony  and  everlasting  happi- 
ness. 

There  are  those  around  you  who  do  not  believe  in 
these  things.  They  were  not  trained  as  you  were 
trained.  Their  mother  was  not  your  mother,  and  they 
were  not  endowed  wdth  your  nature.  They  do  not 
possess  your  pureness  of  insight.  In  short,  they  are 
not,  to  any  great  extent,  the  subjects  of  religious  con- 
viction ;  and  yet  you  choose  these  men  for  your 
associates  and  fellows.  I  ask  you  now  whether  you 
consider  it  a  manly  thing  for  one  like  you,  with  your 
convictions,  to  live  like  one  who  has  no  convictions — 
whether  you  do  not  feel  that  you  are  really  disgracing 
yourself  and  depreciating  your  own  seff-respect  by 
constantly  refusing  to  yield  your  heart  and  life  to 
the  claim  of  those  convictions  which  never  leave 
you. 

While 'you  give  such  answers  to  these  questions  as 
I  know  you  cannot  fail  to  give,  and  w^hile  you  half 


To  Edward  Payfon  Jones.  75 

resolve  to  yield  to  convictions  which  I  know  are  press- 
ing upon  you  now  with  redoubled  force,  you  look 
forward  to  the  possible  consequences  of  a  change  in 
the  motives  and  regulating  forces  of  your  life.  Before 
your  imagination,  glaring  gloomily  in  the  distance, 
there  stands  a  lion  in  the  way.  A  hearty  and  uncon- 
ditional surrender  to  your  convictions  would  involve 
changes  in  your  social  relations,  in  habits  which  liave 
become  endeared  to  you,  in  the  general  sources  from 
which  you  have  drawn  the  satisfactions  of  your  life. 
You  know  that  a  change  like  this  would  bring  with 
it  a  pubHc  declaration  of  your  faith,  and  a  publicly 
formed  union  with  those  men  and  women  who  have 
organized  themselves  into  the  Christian  church.  You 
shrink  from  this  with  a  sensitiveness  of  selfish  pride 
which  ought  to  show  you  that  you  are  very  much 
farther  from  being  a  Christian  than  you  suppose  your- 
self to  be,  for,  with  all  your  consciousness  of  religious 
convictions  stifled,  you  are  fondly  cherishing  the 
fancy  that  you  are  already  quite  as  good  as  Christians 
average. 

Now  you  know,  my  friend,  that  I  do  not  entertain 
a  very  extravagent  opinion  of  the  prerogatives  of  the 
Christian  church.  No  church  has  the  power  to  save 
you  or  me,  or  to  say  whether  you  or  I  shall  be  saved 
or  not.  You  know  also  that  I  am  no  propagandist  of 
sectarian   doctrines   and   policies.     If  a   church   is   a 


76  Letters  to  the  Jonefes. 

Christian  church,  that  is  enough.     I  do  not  care  the 
value  of  a  straw  by  what  name  it  calls  itself.     I  look 
upon  it  as  a  school  of  Christian  disciples — of  imperfect 
men  and  women  who  have  chosen  Christianity  as  their 
religion — their  reforming  motive   and  their  rule   of 
life — the   grand   system  of  spiritual  truths  in  which 
they  have  garnered  their  hopes  for  this  life  and  the 
life  to  come — garnered  their  temporal  and  eternal  satis- 
factions.    I  do  not  believe  in  the  infallibility  of  any 
church,  or  in  the  sinlessness  of  any  member  of  a  church. 
Nay,  I   do  not   believe  that  the  act  of  uniting  with 
a   church   has   in   itself  any   saving   grace   whatever. 
Church  is  not   Christianity,   and   Christianity  is  not 
church,  in  any  practical  sense.     A  man  is   probably 
just  as  good  a  Christian  the  moment  before  joining  a 
church  as  he  is  the  moment  after ;  but  a  Christian  AviU 
cast  in  his  lot  with  Christians,  if  he  possesses  a  decent 
degree  of  manhood,  and  share  with  them  in  the  Chris- 
tian work  of  the  world. 

I  know  very  well  what  the  influences  are  which 
restrain  you  from  yielding  to  your  convictions,  and 
from  taking  the  public  step  which  would  naturally 
follow  such  a  surrender.  You  love  praise.  You 
love  to  be  loved  by  everybody,  and  you  have  very 
strong  friends  among  all  sorts  of  people.  The  good 
people  praise  you,  and  feel  as  if  you,  with  your 
straightforward    life   and    pure    habits,   belonged   to 


To  Edward  Payfon  Jones.  77 

them.  The  bad  people  love  you,  and  feel  that,  by 
your  practical  denial  of  the  claims  of  Christianity, 
you  make  their  position  respectable.  But  where  do 
you  find  your  delights  ?  "Who  are  your  cronies  ? 
Whose  society  do  you  seek  ?  When  you  feel  inclined 
to  yield  to  your  convictions  of  duty,  whose  are  the 
shrugging  shoulders  and  the  pitying  smiles — whose 
are  the  quiet  jest  and  the  banter  and  badinage  which 
come  in  quick  vision  to  you,  to  shame  and  scare  you  ? 
My  friend,  you  do  not  love  that  which  is  characteristic- 
ally Christian  society.  You  love  that  which  has  no 
Christian  element  in  it  except  the  element  of  decency ; 
and  you  feel  that  to  become  the  member  of  a  Chris- 
tian church  would  throw  you  out  of  sympathy  with 
men  whose  good  will  and  good  fellowship  you  count 
among  your  choicest  treasures.  You  cannot  bear  that 
these  men  should  think  you  weak  and  womanish.  You 
cannot  bear  to  become  the  subject  of  their  lenient  and 
charitable  scorn. 

Human  friendship  is  very  sweet.  These  ties  that 
bind  heart  to  heai't — these  sjTnpatbetic  responses  of 
kindred  natures — these  loves  among  men  glorify 
human  life ;  but  they  not  unfrequently  form  a  Ijond 
of  imion  so  strong  that  one  powerfid  nature  will, 
through  their  aid,  carry  whithersoever  it  will — even 
into  the  jaws  of  destruction — all  the  lives  that  are 
joined  with  it.     The  ice  upon  the  mountain  side  links 


78  Letters  to  the  Jonefes. 

rock  to  rock  till  the  lightning  or  the  earthquake 
loosens  the  hold  of  the  giant  of  the  group,  and  it  drags 
them  all  into  the  valley  below.  Life  nearly  always 
follows  the  current  of  its  friendships  or  flows  parallel 
with  it.  If  a  man  finds  his  most  grateful  companion- 
ships among  those  who  are  irreligious — either  nega- 
tively or  positively — he  shows  just  what  and  where 
his  heart  is.  Like  seeks  and  sympathizes  with 
like. 

I  ask  you,  Edward  Payson  Jones,  to  apply  this  test 
to  yourself.  What  kind  of  society  do  you  delight  in 
most  ?  Do  you  love  and  cling  to  those  most  who  best 
represent  to  you  the  religion  in  which  your  mother 
lived  and  died,  or  those  who  practically  hold  that 
religion  in  very  light  esteem  ?  I  ask  you  to  apply 
this  test,  because  I  think  you  are  entertaining  the  idea 
that,  although  you  make  no  professions,  you  are  quite 
as  good  a  Christian  as  those  are  who  do.  My  friend, 
you  choose  freely  to  give  your  most  intimate  friend- 
ships to  the  worldlings  by  whom  you  are  surrounded. 
I  state  the  fact,  and  leave  you  to  your  own  con- 
clusions. 

There  is  another  powerful  influence  which  dissuades 
you  from  yielding  to  your  convictions.  You  are 
absorbed  in  business.  All  the  activities  of  your  nature 
are  given  to  it.  Great  business  responsibilities  are 
upon  you,  and  your  heart  gives  them  glad  entertain- 


.     To  Edward  Payfon  Jones.  79 

ment,  for  they  are  full  of  promise  to  your  ambition 
and  your  desire  for  wealth.  Business  occupies  nearly 
all  your  Avaking  thoughts,  and  even  haunts  your  pil- 
low and  breaks  your  slumbers.  It  obtrudes  itself  uj^on 
your  family  life,  and  monopolizes  both  your  time  and 
your  vital  i^ower.  Your  heart  is  so  full  that  you  have 
no  room  in  it  for  another  object.  "VYife  and  children 
and  friends  and  business — these  four ;  but  the  greatest 
of  these,  practically,  is  business.  If  you  will  candidly 
examine  yourself,  you  will  see  that  I  do  not  overrate 
this  power  of  business  which  shuts  out  from  your  heart 
a  guest  Avho  sits  and  shivers  in  its  anteroom  in  the  cold 
society  of  your  convictions.  To  make  this  matter  still 
worse,  you  are  throAvn  into  contact  with  men  in  the 
Avay  of  business  upon  whom  you  are,  to  a  certain  extent, 
dependent  for  your  prosperity,  who  hold  Christianity 
and  its  professed  friends  and  possessors  in  contempt. 
You  cannot  bear  this  contempt.  These  men,  with  their 
business  thoughts  and  schemes,  break  in  upon  your  Sab- 
baths, they  tempt  you,  they  familiarize  your  ears  with 
prof^inity,  and  invest  you  constantly  with  an  atmosphere 
of  worldliness.  You  have  in  your  present  position  no 
defence  against  the  influence  of  these  associations.  You 
have  never  declared  yourself  upon  the  side  of  Christian- 
ity, and  these  business  friends  of  yours  know  it.  They 
recognize  you  as  one  of  their  own  number,  and  treat 
you  accordingly ;  and  yet,  you  are  foolish  enough   to 


80  Letters  to  the  Jonefes. 

believe,  or  to  try  to  make  yourself  believe,  that  a  man 
can  be  just  as  good  a  Christian  outside  of  the  church 
as  inside  of  it !  Why,  my  friend,  you  are  a  man  of 
honor.  However  much  disgusted  and  abused,  your 
nature  is  a  chivalrous  one.  If  you  felt  yourself  iden- 
tified with  a  great  cause,  would  you  betray  it  ?  Have 
you  not  often  comforted  yourself  with  the  considera- 
tion that,  if  you  have  failed  to  become  what  your 
convictions  have  urged  you  to  become,  no  one  has 
been  harmed  but  yourself? 

I  have  spoken  of  you  as  a  man  of  honor.  I  think 
you  are  sensitively  such.  I  know  of  no  man  who  more 
thoroughly  despises  a  mean  and  unmanly  spirit,  or  a 
mean  and  unmanly  deed.  If  you  were  to  see  a  man 
who,  for  any  reason,  should  cast  his  vote  at  an  election 
contrary  to  his  convictions  of  political  duty,  or  any 
man  who  should  stand  upon  the  fence  in  an  important 
canvass  and  refuse  to  place  himself  on  the  side  of  the 
right,  or  who,  in  a  great  public  emergency,  should 
fail  to  perform  his  duty  through  absorbing  devotion 
to  his  private  pursuits,  you  would  think  him  a  mean 
man.  You  would  despise  particularly  one  whom  you 
knew  to  be  the  subject  of  strong  political  convictions, 
which  were  so  feebly  pronounced  that  all  parties  claim- 
ed him.  I  take  your  own  standard  and  apply  it  to 
you.  I  say,  on  the  authority  of  your  own  best  judg- 
ments, that  it  is  mean  and  immanly  for  you,  with  your 


To  Edward  Payfon  Jones,  81 


strong  religious  convictions,  to  refuse  to  stand  by 
them,  and  act  up  to  them.  It  is  mean  and  unmanly 
for  you  to  refuse  to  identify  yourself  with  the  society, 
and  assist  in  maintaining  and  forwarding  the  cause 
of  those  whom,  sooner  or  later,  you  deliberately 
intend  to  join,  and  whom  you  feel  and  know  to  be  in 
the  right.  If  you  were  not  convinced  of  the  truth,  I 
should  be  more  charitable  toward  you.  If  there 
remained  anything  to  be  done  in  shaping  the  judgment 
of  your  intellect  and  your  heart,  you  would  have  some 
excuse ;  but  no  such  exigency  exists.  No,  sir :  you 
are  convinced  ;  but  you  flinch,  and  you  refuse  to  stand 
in  a  manly  way  by  what  you  know  and  feel  to  be 
right. 

"While  I  thus  blame  .you,  I  pity  you.  I  know 
how  much  your  heart  bends  before  these  words  of 
mine,  and  how  impotent  you  feel  for  action  in  the 
right  direction.  You  almost  feel  as  if  your  hands  and 
feet  were  tied.  You  almost  feel  as  if  you  must  follow 
your  old  friendships — that  they  have  fastened  them- 
selves to  you  by  hooks  of  steel  which  cannot  be 
broken.  You  feel  that  your  business  is  upon  you, 
and  all  its  associations,  and  that  neither  can  be  lifted. 
You  feel  that  you  really  have  no  room  in  your  life 
for  those  exjieriences  and  those  duties  which  accom- 
pany the  surrender  of  the  heart  to  religion.  You 
feel    yourself  walled  around  by  obstacles,  and,  what 


82  Letters  to  the  Jonefes. 

is  really  worse  than  this,  you  know  that  you  gi'ow 
more  and  more  in  love  with  the  life  you  lead,  and 
less  inclined  to  take  the  direction  of  your  early  train- 
ing. The  oath  does  not  shock  you  as  it  once  did ; 
vulgarity  is  not  as  offensive  as  it  once  was ;  you  have 
learned  to  look  more  leniently  upon  the  vices  of  the 
men  by  Avhom  you  are  surrounded ;  worldliness  does 
not  seem  so  barren  a  form  of  life  as  formerly ;  you 
are  charmed  and  excited  by  success ;  and  you  cannot 
deny  to  yourself  the  fact  that,  strong  as  your  convic- 
tions of  duty  are,  your  heart  and  your  life  are  growing 
more  and  more  widely  estranged  from  them.  Where 
do  you  suppose  all  this  will  end  ?  You  have  common 
sense,  and  can  judge  as  well  as  I.  Do  habits  grow 
weaker  by  long  continuance?  Are  the  cares  of  busi- 
ness less  absorbing  as  life  advances  ?  Is  moral  con- 
viction the  stronger  for  constant  denial  and  insult  ?  I 
say,  you  have  common  sense,  and  can  judge  as  well  as 
I.  You  know  as  well  as  I  that  this  life  of  yours  must 
have  a  rupture  with  its  surroundings — that  your  feet 
must  turn  into  another  path — that  you  must  yield 
yourself  a  conquest  to  your  convictions,  or  that  your 
life  will  be  one  of  disaster,  and  that  its  end  will  be 
wretchedness  or  an  induration  worse  than  wretched- 
ness. 

You  are  surrounded  by  a  crowd  of  men  and  women 
who  do  not  regard  life  as  a  very  serious  thing.     They 


To  Edward  Payfon  Jones.  83 

take  it  carelessly  and  gayly.  You  see  the  multitudes 
rusliing  along  in  the  pursuit  of  baubles.  Men  live  and 
die,  and  there  comes  back  no  voice  to  tell  whether  they 
sleep  with  the  brutes  or  wake  with  the  angels.  Men 
eat  and  sleep,  and  love  and  hate,  and  make  display  of 
their  equipage,  and  pursue  their  ambitions  and  indulge 
in  all  the  forms  of  vanity  and  pride,  and  all  life  comes 
at  last  to  seem  like  a  sort  of  phantasmagoria — empty, 
unreal,  insignificant.  You  see  that  these  convictions 
of  yours  have  no  place  in  the  multitude  of  minds 
around  you,  and  no  place  in  the  current  of  life  by 
which  you  feel  yourself  borne  along.  There  are 
moments,  I  suppose,  when  you  doubt  the  soundness 
of  these  convictions — when  you  half  believe  that  you 
are  the  victim  of  a  morbid  conscience,  or  of  a  super- 
stitious impression.  At  such  moments  as  these — when 
the  ti'icks  of  the  world  delude  you  most,  come  back 
to  your  mother,  and  learn  the  truth.  That  life  of 
hers,  so  pure  and  unselfish  and  useful,  and  that  death 
of  hers,  so  peaceful  and  triumphant,  are  realities. 
They  can  never  lie  to  you,  and  the  moment  you  touch 
them,  you  know  that  you  touch  somethmg  divine — 
something  by  the  side  of  which  all  worldliness  and 
wealth  and  material  success  are  chaff. 

You  will  perceive,  in  what  I  have  written  to  you, 
that  I  have  not  imdertaken  to  convince  you  of  any- 
thing.   I  have  not  imdertaken  even  to  deepen  your 


84  Letters  to  the  Jonefes. 

convictions.  I  have  simgly  endeavored  to  reveal  you 
and  your  own  experience  to  yourself,  and  to  urge  you 
to  yield  to  convictions  which  I  know  are  striving  to 
gain  the  control  of  your  life.  I  have  simply  urged 
you  to  be  true  to  yourself — to  take  a  bold,  manly, 
consistent  stand  upon  the  side  which  you  know  to  be 
right — to  be  a  Christian  man  in  Christian  society, 
and  to  refuse  longer  to  stand  upon  what  you  mistaken- 
ly regard  as  neutral  ground.  Do  you  know  that  you 
are  abusing  and  ruining  yourself?  Do  you  reahze 
that  the  passage  of  every  day  renders  it  less  probable 
that  your  convictions  will  ever  gain  the  victory  over 
you? 

I  appreciate  the  struggle  it  would  cost  you  to 
welcome  the  new  motive  and  change  the  policy  and 
issues  of  your  life.  The  preacher  may  talk  as  he  will 
of  the  ease  of  the  path  of  life  and  the  ease  of  yielding 
up  the  will,  but  you  and  I  know  that  there  is  no  ease 
about  it.  We  know  that  whatever  may  be  the  trvith 
touching  the  doctrine  of  imiversal  total  depravity,  it 
is  not  natural  for  us  to  lead  religious  lives.  It  takes 
sacrifice  and  fighting  and  heroism  to  do  that.  I  know 
it,  and  you  know  it.  Easy  to  be  a  Christian  man  ? 
It  is  mean  for  a  man  like  you  not  to  be  one — it  is 
wrong  for  a  man  like  you  not  to  be  one — ^but  Heaven 
knows  it  is  not  easy  for  you  to  be  one,  or  you  would 
have  been  one  long  ago.     !N'o,  my  friend  ;  it  will  be 


hard  for  you  to  be  one,  and  it  will  grow  harder  every 
year  till  you  become  one.  But  it  pays,  and  when  you 
are  once  fairly  on  the  right  side,  you  will  not  care  for 
the  struggle,  for  you  will  have  good  company,  a  clean 
conscience,  and  an  outlook  into  the  far  future  unclouded 
and  full  of  inspiration. 


THE    SIXTH    LETTER. 

CONCERKING  TEE  DIFFICULTY  SEE  EXPERIENCES  IN 
KEEPING  HER  SERVANTS. 

'T  has  been  stated  to  me,  confidentially,  that  you 
have  had  nineteen  different  cooks  and  thirteen 
chambermaids  in  your  house  during  the  past  year. 
This  may  be  slightly  above  the  annual  average.  I 
should  hope  so.  I  do  not  imderstand  how  flesh  and 
blood  could  endure  such  changes.  Yet  you  live  and 
thrive ;  and  the  new  servants  come  and  go  at  about 
the  usual  number  per  month.  Your  husband  grew 
tired,  long  ago,  with  rasping  against  so  much  new 
domestic  material,  but  has  learned  fortitude  by 
practice.  One  or  two  attempts  on  his  part  to  teU 
you  that  there  were  women  who  kept  their  servants 
for  months  and  years  without  change,  and  to  convince 
you  that  it  was  possible  that  there  were  bad  mistresses 


To  Mrs.  Jeffy  Bell  Jones.  87 

in  the  world  as  well  as  bad  servants,  resulted  in  scenes 
which  will  be  avoided  in  future.  Not  if  he  were  to  see 
a  procession  of  young  women  entering  your  house  and 
emerging  from  it  through  all  the  weary  year — not  if 
he  were  to  hear  a  constant  storm  raging  in  the  kitchen 
and  echoing  throughout  the  passages  and  chambers, 
would  he  ever  intimate  that  you  were  not  the  paragon 
of  mistresses,  and  that  your  girls  were  not  the  mean- 
est, dirtiest,  sauciest  pot-sl  ewers  that  ever  invaded  an 
abode  of  civilization. 

No,  JNIrs.  Jones ;  you  will  have  it  all  your  ovm  Avay, 
without  any  interference  from  him.  He  knows  you  are 
in  the  wrong,  and  so  do  you ;  but  he  will  never  tell 
you  so  again.  On  the  contrary,  he  will  sympathize 
with  you  after  a  fashion,  and  take  your  part  in  all  your 
quarrels  and  all  your  domestic  diihculties ;  but  he  will 
quietly  wish,  meanwhile,  that  you  had  the  faculty  of 
getting  along  pleasantly  with  your  servants.  I  have 
intimated  to  you  that  you  know  yourself  to  be  in  the 
wrong.  You  are  not  a  fool.  On  the  contrary,  you 
are  a  very  sharp,  bright  woman,  and  you  cannot  fail 
to  see  that  there  is  a  reason,  wtnewhere  in  your  house^ 
for  your  failure  to  keep  your  servants.  Your  neigh- 
bor lives  in  the  same  climate  that  you  do.  The  roof 
of  her  house  is  covered  by  slate  from  the  same  quar- 
ry ;  her  Stuart's  stove  is  of  the  same  size  as  yours ; 
her  laundry  is  no  more  convenient  than  yours ;  her 


88  Letters  to  the  Jonefes. 


servants  are  no  better  fed  than  yours ;  she  gives  no 
better  wages  than  you ;  but  she  keeps  her  servants, 
and  you  do  not  keep  yours.  "When  one  of  her  servants 
marries,  or  sickens,  or,  for  any  reason,  wishes  to  leave 
her,  fifty  others  stand  ready  to  take  her  place,  and  she 
has  her  pick  of  them  all,  while  you  are  obliged  to 
take  such  as  come,  and  such  as  feel  compelled  to  come 
after  having  heard  that  you  are  a  hard  mistress.  For 
you  must  know  that  masters  and  mistresses  have 
reputations  among  servants — reputations  made  up, 
and  weighed,  and  widely  known.  You,  and  a  hun- 
dred other  women  whom  I  know,  have  bad  reputa- 
tions among  servants  ;  and  when  you  deal  with  them 
you  are  always  obliged  to  deal  with  them  under  the 
disadvantage  which  a  bad  reputation  bears  with  it. 

Suppose  we  have  a  little  plain  talk  about  these 
matters,  and  see  if  we  can  get  at  an  understanding 
of  them.  You  will  pardon  me  if  I  tell  you,  in  the 
first  place,  that  you  are  an  opinionated  person,  which 
is  a  mild  way  of  stating  that,  in  certain  respects,  you 
arc  very  conceited.  Your  pet  conceit  is  that  you  are  a 
model  housekeeper,  and  your  opinion  is  that  you  know 
the  best  and  only  proper  modes  of  doing  the  work  in 
your  kitchen,  and  in  your  house  generally.  You  have 
your  own  way  of  doing  everything.  You  have  your 
particular  order,  in  which  all  things  about  you  are  to 
be  done.     The  machinery  of  your  household  arrange- 


To  Mrs.  Jefly  Bell  Jones.  89 

ments,  as  it  exists  in  your  mind,  is  a  perfect  whole,  and 
every  executive  element  that  you  introduce  into  it 
must  adapt  itself  to  that  machinery,  or  it  is  cast  out 
at  once,  or  is  so  harassed  that  it  casts  itself  out.  Sup- 
jDOse  a  girl  enters  your  kitchen  who  understands  her 
business,  but  who  has  learned  it  under  another  mistress, 
and  a  different  household  economy.  She  has  learned  to 
do  her  work  in  a  certain  way,  and  after  a  certan  order. 
She  has  her  notions  as  well  as  you.  It  is  quite  possible 
that  those  notions  may  be  in  many  respects  better  than 
yours.  You  insist,  however,  from  the  moment  she 
enters  your  service,  that  she  shall  do  your  work  in  your 
way.  You  do  not  wait  to  see  results.  You  do  not 
wait  to  see  how  she  Avill  succeed  if  left  entirely  to  her- 
self, but  you  go  into  the  kitchen  with  her,  and  superin- 
tend every  act.  You  give  her  no  freedom,  you  encour- 
age no  independent  effort ;  you  take  the  whole  burden 
on  yourself,  and  insist  that  she  shall  be  your  machine. 
"When  she  forgets  your  directions,  or  steps  aside  from 
them,  you  find  fault  with  her.  She  soon  tires  with  this 
sort  of  treatment,  and  you  are  told  to  look  for  another 
girl. 

I  have  told  you  that  your  pet  conceit  is  that  you 
are  a  model  housekeeper,  and  tried  to  show  that  your 
difficulties  with  your  servants  grow  out  of  your  insist- 
ing that  they  shall  do  everything  in  your  way.  I 
think  I  may  justly  say,  in  addition,  that  there  is  a 


90  Letters  to  the  Jonefes. 

certain  sensitiveness  of  will  in  your  constitution 
which  aggravates  these  difficulties.  You  are  impe- 
rious. There  is  one  spot  in  the  world  where  you  have 
the  right  to  rule — one  spot  where  that  will  of  yours 
has  the  right  to  assert  itself  and  make  itself  law. 
Perhaj)s  there  is  no  other  spot  where  your  will  is 
recognized.  Your  house  is  your  only  domain.  There 
you  are  a  queen,  and  you  are  sensitively  alive  to 
all  interference  with  your  prerogatives.  It  frets 
you  to  feel  that  there  is  any  other  person  in  the 
house,  with  a  will,  who  lias  anything  to  do  or  say 
about  your  domestic  affiiirs.  You  do  not  feel  that 
a  servant  has  a  right  to  an  independent  opinion  on 
any  subject  connected  with  her  service ;  and  when 
any  such  opinion  finds  practical  expression,  it  enrages 
you.  A  servant  may  feel  that  if  she  does  her  work 
well,  in  the  way  most  convenient  to  her,  she  does 
all  that  you  can  reasonably  claim ;  but  you  feel  that 
unless  that  work — in  all  its  modes  and  particulars — 
has  followed  the  channel  of  your  will,  you  have  been 
insulted  in  your  own  house.  In  short,  madam,  you 
are  "  touchy,"  and  when  you  are  touched,  you  scold, 
and  when  you  scold,  off  goes  your  girl.  You  have 
excellent  pluck,  however.  I  have  never  known  you  to 
lament  the  loss  of  a  servant.  They  were  always  such 
terrible  creatures  that  you  were  glad  to  get  rid  of  them. 
I  do  not  know  how  you  came  to  be  just  the  sort  of 


To  Mrs.  Jeffy  Bell  Jones.  91 

mistress  you  are.  You  were  a  very  pleasant  little 
girl,  with  a  sweet  temper.  It  has  really  puzzled  me 
to  find  out  the  reason  for  your  peculiar  development. 
I  suppose  there  must  be  an  "  ugly  streak "  in  you 
somewhere,  but  you  did  not  show  it  when  you  were 
a  child.  Your  hair  is  red,  I  know  (call  it  golden), 
and  your  eyes  black,  but  the  hair  is  beautiful  and  soft, 
and  the  eye  has  a  world  of  love  in  it  for  the  man  it 
worships  and  for  his  children.  My  theory  is  that 
every  nature  which  has  any  force  in  it  will  assert 
itself  somewhere,  in  some  form,  and  that  if  it  fails 
to  be  recognized  in  society,  it  will  make  itself  recog- 
nized where  there  are  none  to  dispute  its  claims.  I 
do  not  recall  a  single  famous  housekeeper,  with  a 
splendid  faculty  for  getting  rid  of  servants,  and  a 
bad  reputation  among  them,  who,  at  the  same  time, 
was  a  woman  widely  recognized  in  society.  If  you, 
Mrs.  Jessy  Bell  Jones,  were  an  acknowledged  power 
and  authority  in  the  social  circle ;  if  you  were  a  fine 
musician  with  the  opportunity  to  charm  your  friends  ; 
if  you  had  a  high  degree  of  literary  culture  and  were 
received  everywhere  in  literary  circles  as  an  ornament 
or  an  equal ;  if  you  possesed  a  recognized  value  out 
of  your  house,  or  in  your  parlor,  beyond  other  women 
of  your  class  or  set,  I  think  you  would  be  content — 
that  your  servants  would  get  along  well  enough,  and 
that  you  would  get  along   well   enough  with   them. 


92  Letters  to  the  Jonefes. 

But  you  have  turned  housekeeper,  and  directed  all 
your  energies  and  al^  your  ambitions,  and  all  your 
will,  into  the  channel  of  housekeeping ;  and  woe  to 
the  servant  who  stands  in  your  way. 

Under  these  circumstances,  there  are  a  few  prac- 
tical questions  which  it  would  be  well  for  you  to  ask 
yourself.  Do  you  feel  that  your  system  of  manage- 
ment pays  ?  Do  you  enjoy  these  constant  troubles 
with  your  servants  ?  Do  you  think  your  husband 
enjoys  them,  and  your  irate  or  plaintive  representa- 
tions of  them  ?  Do  you  not  feel  sometimes  as  if  you 
would  be  willing  to  give  a  good  deal  of  money,  and 
put  yoiirself  to  a  good  deal  of  trouble  to  get  along  as 
smoothly  with  your  girls  as  some  of  your  neighbors 
do  ?  Do  you  wish  or  erpect  always  to  live  the  same 
sort  of  life  you  are  living  now  ? 

In  making  up  your  answers  to  these  questions,  you 
must  remember  that  any  change  which  may  be  made 
must  begin  with  yourself.  If  you  are  reaUy  willing  to 
make  sacrifices  for  the  sake  of  peace  and  pei-petuity 
in  your  domestic  arrangements,  you  can  have  both ; 
but  you  will  be  obliged  to  sacrifice  your  will,  and  a 
good  many  of  your  pet  notions  concerning  house- 
keeping. If  it  is  sweeter  to  you  to  have  your  will, 
than  it  is  to  keep  gii'ls  steadily  who  will  serve  you 
reasonably  well,  why,  of  course,  that  settles  the 
question  ;  though  it  is  doubtful   whether  you   would 


To  Mrs.  Jefly  Bell  Jones.  93 

get  so  much  of  your  will  accomplished  by  sending 
them  away  as  you  would  by  keeping  them. 

You  must  take  certain  facts  into  consideration 
when  you  hire  a  servant.  The  most  important  is, 
perhaps,  that  when  you  hire  a  servant  you  do  not 
buy  a  slave.  You  do  not  buy  the  right  to  badger 
and  scold  her,  to  impose  upon  her  unreasonable  bur- 
dens, or  to  treat  her  as  if  she  were  only  an  animal. 
You  are  to  remember,  also,  that  there  are  two  sides 
to  this  relation  of  mistress  and  servant.  Labor  is  not 
a  drug  in  this  country  yet,  thank  Heaven,  and  it  is 
quite  as  important  to  you  that  you  have  servants,  as 
it  is  to  your  girls  that  they  do  service.  You  and  your 
girls  are  under  mutual  obligations  to  treat  each  other 
well.  In  England  and  on  the  Continent,  where  human 
life,  owing  to  peculiar  circumstances,  is  in  excess — a 
condition  which  cannot  possibly  exist  in  healthily 
constituted  society — servants  are  born  into  families 
often,  and  grow  up  dependants,  forever  attached 
to  the  family  name  and  interest.  A  good  place  and 
a  permanent  one  is  equivalent  to  a  treasure  with  them, 
and  they  wUl  make  many  sacrifices  to  preserve  it, 
Here,  it  is  different.  Labor  is  everywhere  in  demand, 
and  no  girl  ever  steps  out  of  your  door  without  know- 
ing that,  -within  a  short  space  of  time,  she  can  easily 
find  another  place,  with  a  chance  at  least  for  better 
treatment  than  you  give  her. 


94  Letters  to  the  Jonefes. 


There  is  another  consideration  to  which  I  am  sure 
sufficient  importance  has  not  been  attached.  You 
are  a  Protestant,  as  the  majority  of  Americans  are, 
.and  you  know  that  servants  who  come  to  you,  and 
whom  the  most  of  us  employ,  are  Catholics.  It  is 
notorious  and  incontrovertible  that  your  servants 
are  taught  to  consider  you  a  heretic — a  person  who 
has  no  religion,  and  who  is  bound  as  directly  for 
hell  as  if  she  were  a  murderess.  It  is  cruel  to  teach 
these  ignorant  women  such  horrible  stuff,  but  they 
are  taught  it.  The  Irish  gui  in  your  kitchen,  who 
perhaps  does  not  know  her  alphabet — who  probably 
has  not  the  first  idea  of  the  vital  truths  of  Chris- 
tianity— regards  you  and  the  whole  community  of 
American  Protestants  with  contemj^t,  as  the  accursed 
of  God,  and  of  those  whom  she  supposes  to  be  His 
representatives  on  the  earth.  She  has  been  bred  to 
this  opinion,  and  it  may  be  the  only  really  strong 
opinion  she  has  in  her  mind.  She  has  no  doubt  that 
a  drunken,  profane,  lying  scoundrel,  if  he  is  only 
in  the  Catholic  church,  has  a  better  chance  for  heaven 
than  the  purest  Protestant  that  lives,  because  she  has 
been  taught  from  childhood  that  there  is  no  salvation 
out  of  "  the  church."  Now  I  say  that  women  thus 
bred  cannot  possibly  entertain  such  a  degree  of  respect 
for  you  that  they  will  take  patiently  your  style  of 
treatment.     It   is   notorious   that    they   receive,   even 


To  Mrs.  Jefly  Bell  Jones.  95 

with  abject  humility,  indignities  from  masters  and 
mistresses  belonging  to  their  church,  while  they  exact 
from  Protestants  the  last  ounce  of  that  which  is  their 
due  as  Christian  women.  I  do  not  complain  of  this  par- 
ticularly, but  I  allude  to  it  to  show  that  you,  and  every 
Protestant  mistress  in  America,  must  necessarily  labor 
under  disadvantages  in  the  managjement  of  servants. 

CD  Kj 

There  is  stiU  another  consideration  which  you  and 
all  other  mistresses  should  make,  which  is,  that  aU 
girls  who  are  good  for  anything  must  do  their  work  in 
their  own  way,  or  not  do  it  well.  One  of  the  hardest 
things  in  this  world  for  any  person  who  has  brains,  and 
the  power  to  use  them,  is  to  do  another  person's  work 
is  another  person's  way.  To  most  persons,  the  attempt 
to  do  this  is  always  disgusting,  and  often  distressing. 
It  is  only  hacks  and  blockheads  that  can  possibly  sub- 
mit themselves  to  the  degradation  which  such  a  ser-vdce 
involves.  You  must  always  be  content  with  these,  or 
you  must  have  servants  who  have  some  notions  and 
ways  of  their  own.  A  servant  may  be  a  very  humble 
person,  but  she  has  her  will,  and  her  pride,  and  her 
desire  to  be  somebody  in  her  place,  just  as  much  as 
you  have  ;  and  she  will  not  sell  her  right  to  entertain 
an  opinion  and  have  her  way  in  the  little  details  of 
her  service  for  a  dollar  and  seventy-five  cents  a  week, 
to  you  or  anybody  else.  I  must  confess  that  I  sym- 
pathize with  her  in  this  thing.     Among  your  servants 


96  Letters  to  the  Jonefes. 


you  may  reasonably  require  results  economically  at- 
tained, but  all  that  exactness  which  insists  on  dust- 
ing a  piano  from  the  north  to  the  south,  or  prescribes 
the  whole  routine  of  a  kitchen,  to  its  minutest  particu- 
lar, and  vigilantly  maintains  it,  is  an  insult  and  a  hard- 
ship, and  is  certain  to  be  regarded  and  treated  as  such 
by  every  servant  who  is  good  for  anything. 

Now  if  you  are  willing  to   make   all  these   con- 
siderations, you   can   have  servants   and   keep   them. 
If  you  are  willing  to  consider  that  your  servant  is 
not  a  slave,  and  has  a  right  to  the  treatment  due  to 
a  rational  woman,  that  you  have  no  right  to  harass 
her  with  your  notions  or  your  petulancies,  that  you 
are  imder  as  strong  an  obligation  to  treat  her  well  as 
she  is  to  treat  you  well,  that  she  has  been  bred  to 
consider  you  a  heretic — one  for  whom  God  has  no 
respect  and  Heaven  no  home,  that  it  is  in  the  nature 
of  things   impossible  for  a  really  capable   and  good 
servant  to  do  her  work  cheerfully  and  well  when  she 
is  required  to  do  it  in  a  way  not  her  own,  that  in  this 
world  of  imperfection  there  are  some  things  which 
will  be  unpleasant  "  in  the  best  regulated  families," 
that  it  is  better  to   enjoy  peace   generally,  than   to 
have    one's    will   in   unimportant   particulars, — I    say 
that  if  you  are  willing  to  consider  all  these  things,  I 
do  not  see  why  you  may  not  keep  your  servants  as 
long  as  other  people,  and  »have  just  as  good  a  time 


To  Mrs.  Jefly  Bell  Jones.  97 

with  them.  It  will  be  very  hard  for  you  to  break 
into  this  thing,  and  I  know  of  but  one  way  for  you  to 
proceed.  Get  a  new  cook — the  best  you  can  find — and 
promise  to  pay  her  good  wages.  Then  hold  up  your 
right  hand  and  swear  in  the  presence  of  your  husband 
(who  vnll  record  your  oath  with  vmaffected  delight), 
that  you  will  not  enter  your  kitchen  for  a  month,  unless 
it  be  to  praise  some  particular  dish,  or  tell  the  cook 
how  nicely  everything  looks  in  her  domain.  At  the 
end  of  the  month,  you  will  have  learned  that  cooking 
can  be  carried  on  in  your  family  without  your  help,  that 
your  cook  is  contented  and  pleased,  that  you  are 
happier  than  you  have  been  for  ten  years,  that  you 
have  more  time  for  reading  and  dressing  and  visiting, 
and  that  the  inconveniences  attending  a  course  like 
this  are  much  less  than  those  which  have  thus  far 
accompanied  your  housekeeping  life.  I  would  not 
prescribe  constant  absence  from  the  kitchen  as  the 
only  safe  course  for  all ;  I  simply  say  that  it  is  the 
only  safe  course  for  you.  After  a  few  months  shall  have 
passed  away,  and  you  shall  have  come  to  love  your  new 
way  of  life,  it  wUl  be  safe  for  you  to  take  a  general 
oversight  of  your  kitchen  again.  You  must  run,  how- 
ever, whenever  you  feel  the  old  fever  coming  on. 

Did  you  ever  think  how  easy  it  would  be  to  make 
your  pretty  name — "  Jessy  Bell  " — into  Jezebel  ?  It 
would  be  just  as  easy  to  transform  your  pretty  nature 


98  Letters  to  the  Jonefes. 

into  one  which  that  name  alone  would  fitly  represent. 
I  do  not  account  you  one  of  those  women,  possessed 
with  the  devil,  who  are  as  much  the  horror  of  husband 
and  children  as  of  servants.  You  are  not  even  one 
of  those  women  (from  whom  the  gods  defend  me 
and  mine !)  to  whom  the  vision  of  a  speck  of  dirt  is 
the  cause  of  a  convulsion  and  the  inspiration  of  a 
lecture  that  would  friofhten  anvthing  but  a  clod  out 
of  the  house.  Mysterious  are  the  ways  of  women. 
There  be  women  who  take  delia^ht  in  bein<T  miserable 
and  making  others  so  ;  who  can  scold,  or  cry,  or  howl, 
or  spit  fire  ;  who  would  not  be  happy  if  they  could 
be  ;  who  badger  everybody — implacable,  unreasonable, 
abominable  women,  from  whom  all  gentle  womanhood 
has  departed.  There  be  such  women  as  these,  I  say, 
and  you  have  seen  them.  Will  you  permit  me  to  tell 
you  that  you  are  in  great  danger  of  becoming  one  of 
them  ?  It  is  not  hard  for  a  woman  in  your  circum- 
stances, who  has  set  up  for  model  housekeeper,  witli 
a  sensitive  will  and  a  determination  to  have  every- 
thing in  her  own  way,  to  neglect  the  cultivation  of 
those  goodnesses  and  graces  which  keep  her  spirit 
soft,  and  keep  it  in  sympathy  with  those  who  love  her. 
The  secret  of  living  comfortably  in  this  world, 
consists  in  making  the  best  of  such  unpleasant  things 
as  cannot  be  avoided.  It  is  necessary  for  you  to  have 
servants,  and  it  is  necessary  for  you  to  obtain  your 


To  Mrs.  Jeffy  Bell  Jones. 


99 


servants  from  the  same  class  that  the  rest  of  us  do. 
They  are  not  a  very  reliable  class  of  people,  but  they 
have  in  them  the  labor  that  you  want,  and  must  have. 
The  question  simply  is,  whether,  under  the  circum- 
stances, you  will  make  yourself  and  your  husband 
miserable  by  insisting  on  that  which  you  have  never 
yet  succeeded  in  getting — perfect  servants — the  perfect 
slaves  of  your  will — or  whether  you  will  get  the  best 
servants  you  can,  make  allowance  for  their  short- 
comings, and  put  up  with  their  imperfect  service  for 
the  sake  of  peace.  The  way  in  which  you  answer  this 
question  will  determine  everything  concerning  the 
comfort  of  your  home  Hfe,  and  much  concerning  your 
own  personal  character.  The  best  way  for  you  is  to 
confess — to  yourself,  at  least — that  you  have  been  all 
in  the  wrong,  and  to  change  your  entire  policy.  Turn 
your  energies  in  some  other  direction.  Be  as  good  a 
housekeeper  as  you  can,  imder  the  circumstances,  and 
be  content  with  such  modest  attainments  as  servants 
moderately  intelligent  and  immoderately  independent 
will  permit.  Thus  will  Mrs.  Jessy  Bell  Jones  live  long 
and  comfortably  on  the  earth,  rejoicing  the  hearts  of 
her  husband  and  children,  enjoying  a  good  reputation 
among  the  class  on  which  she  must  depend  for  service, 
taking  comfort  in  ladylike  pursuits,  and  avoiding  the 
imminent  danger  in  which  she  stands  of  becoming 
"  Mrs.  Jezebel  Jones." 


THE    SEVENTH    LETTER. 

^a  Sahtljitl  ^o^^  |oncs,  SpiritiTalbl. 

CONCERNING    THE  FAITH  AND  PROSPECTS  OF  EIS  SECT  OF 

RELIGIONISTS. 

YOU  happen  to  be  one  of  the  men  ordained  from 
the  foundation  of  the  world  to  be  a  Spiritualist. 
There  are  many  unlike  you  who  are  Spiritualists,  but 
there  are  none  like  you  who  are  not.  You  have  all 
that  natural  love  of  whal  is  novel  and  marvellous,  and 
that  peculiar  mixture  of  credulity  and  skepticism,  and 
that  perverse  disposition  to  run  against  the  feelings 
and  prejudices  of  people,  which  would  lead  you  to 
embrace  Spiritualism.  Wherever  I  find  a  man  who 
possesses  your  peculiar  nature  and  character,  I  always 
find  a  Spiritualist ;  for  if  Spiritualism  does  not  come 
to  him,  he  goes  to  it.  You  were  a  Fourierite  when  I 
first  knew  you,  and  you  rode  the  hobby  of  Fourierism 
until  you  rode  it  to  death.     Every  "ism"  that  has 


To  Salathiel  Fogg  Jones.  loi 

been  started  during  the  last  twenty  years  has  numbered 
you  among  its  champions.  You  were  a  zealous  aboli- 
tionist mitil  abolitionism  became  popular,  and  then,  with- 
out turning  against  it,  you  seemed  to  lose  your  interest 
in  it.  When  Spiritualism  made  its  appearance,  I  knew 
,  that  you  would  be  a  Spiritualist,  as  well  as  I  knew  that 
"  fire,  ascending,  seeks  the  sun."  It  was  the  natural 
thing  for  you. 

I  was  not  at  all  surprised,  therefore,  when  you 
caught  me  by  the  button-hole  one  day,  at  the  corner 
of  a  street,  and  announced  to  me  the  conviction  that 
you  could  demonstrate  the  immortality  of  the  human 
soul.  You  may,  perhaps,  remember  the  smile  which 
your  announcement  excited.  I  confess  that  it  amused 
me.  You  seemed  as  interested  and  pleased  about  the 
matter  as  if  you  had  never  heard  of  such  a  thing  as 
immortality  before.  A  book  had  been  in  your  hands 
ever  since  you  could  read,  that  told  you  all  about  it. 
A  belief  in  this  immortality  had  incorporated  itself 
into  the  constitution  and  governments  of  all  the  power- 
ful nations  of  the  world ;  had  moulded  civilization — 
nay,  had  created  civilization  out  of  barbarism ;  had 
introduced  into  society  its  highest  motives  and  its 
most  purifying  elements ;  had  sustained  the  courage 
and  inspired  the  hope  of  multitudes  of  dying  saints 
and  martyrs  through  all  ages  ;  had  surrounded  you  all 
your  life  with  the  evidences  of  its  vitality,  and  yet. 


102  Letters  to  the  Jonefes. 

you  had  but  just  satisfied  yourself  on  the  question,  by 
means  of  unaccountable  raps  on  a  table,  in  the  dark, 
which,  through  a  Httle  assistance  of  your  own,  had 
spelled  out,  in  bad  orthography  and  worse  syntax,  an 
insignificant  sentence  !  Here  was  a  moral  force  that 
had  moved  the  world,  yet  it  had  not  moved  you  ! 
You — wiser,  more  acute,  less  credulous,  less  supersti- 
tious— ^had  waited  to  see  a  table  dance  before  you 
could  believe  in  that  realm  of  spiritual  things  which 
has  hung  above  and  embraced  you  since  you  were 
born,  and  which  has  always  had  a  representative  in 
your  own  bosom ! 

This  has  been  one  of  the  marvels  of  these  latter- 
day  developments  in  Spiritualism  :  that  men  who  have 
been  skeptical  on  all  cognate  subjects,  and  have  resist- 
ed all  the  moral  and  spiritual  evidences  of  immortality 
— resisted  all  the  evidences  gennane  to  the  subject — 
have  bowed  like  bulrushes  before  the  pipofs  that  come 
to  them  from  a  mysteriously  played  banjo,  or  a  com- 
mon place  message,  pretended  to  be  rapped  out  by  a 
friend  on  the  other  side  of  the  river.  It  took  Mate- 
rialism to  prove  Spiritualism  to  these  very  acute  m'en  ; 
and  they  thought  that,  because  they  had  seen  matter 
moved  by  spirit,  or  what  they  supposed  to  be  spirit, 
they  had  made  a  prodigious  advance.  They  have  been 
floored  by  proofs  that  do  not  add  a  hair's  weight  to 
the  faith  of  any  genuine  Christian  in  the  world.     They 


To  Salathiel  Fogg  Jones.  103 

think  that  they  have  made  a  discovery,  and  that  Chris- 
tians are  afraid  of  it,  when  the  truth  is  that  they  have 
made  no  discovery  whatever,  and  that  Christians  are 
above  it.  The  proofs  of  spirituality  and  of  immortality, 
to  be  foimd  in  what  is  called  Spiritualism,  are  the 
grossest  that  can  possibly  be  produced,  supposing  them 
to  be  genuine.  They  are  proofs  that  deal  with  matter 
exclusively,  and  appeal  to  the  commonest  and  lowest 
order  of  minds.  It  is  you,  my  friend,  who  are  behind 
the  age,  and  not  the  Christians  at  whose  faith  you 
scoff,  simply  because  you  are  not  up  to  it  and  cannot 
appreciate  it.  You  receive  a  little  thing  because  you 
are  not  sufficient  to  receive  a  large  one. 

I  do  not  intend,  in  the  few  paragraphs  which  I 
propose  to  write  to  you,  to  undertake  the  overthrow 
of  your  proofs  of  Spiritualism.  I  am  willing,  indeed, 
to  confess  that  I  have  witnessed,  among  much  that  was 
undoubtedly  the  result  of  deception  and  jugglery, 
phenomena  which  I  could  not  rationally  accoimt  for 
by  any  other  theory  than  that  Avhich  assigns  to  them 
a  spiritual  origin.  But  those  jihenomena  have  never 
contributed  anything  to  my  conviction  that  I  am 
immortal,  and  that  there  is  a  realm  of  spiritual  exist- 
ence which  holds  the  product  of  unnumbered  worlds 
and  the  history  of  an  eternity.  They  have  never 
made  so  much  as  a  ripple  on  the  surface  of  my  faith. 
Their  apparent  aim  has  been  so  limited,  many  of  them 


104  Letters  to  the  Jonefes. 

have  been  so  low  and  frivolous,  some  of  them  have  heen 
so  vicious,  and  all  have  had  so  much  more  to  do  with 
matter  than  with  spirit,  or  with  spiritual  truth,  that  they 
have  never  seemed  worthy  for  an  instant  to  have  any 
consideration  as  parts  of  any  religious  system,  or  as 
opponents  of  any  religious  system.  It  is  an  insult  to 
common  sense,  no  less  than  an  offence  to  decency,  to 
compare  the  conglomerate  trash  which  has  been  issued 
as  the  teachings  of  the  spirits  with  Christianity,  as  a 
system  of  religion ;  and  it  is  a  simple  impossibility  for 
a  true  and  hearty  Cliristian  to  accept  in  the  place  of 
his  faith  the  peepings  and  the  mutterings  of  a  pack  of 
lying  demons,  whose  deceptions  and  tricks  are  acknowl- 
edged by  their  best  friends. 

The  rule  which  the  Author  of  Christianity  an- 
nounced, and  which  the  common  judgment  of  the 
world  has  indorsed — that  a  tree  is  known  by  its  fruits — 
is  one  which  it  is  now  proper  to  apply  to  Spiritualism. 
Fifteen  years  have  passed  since  the  new  sect  made  its 
first  batch  of  proselytes.  It  is  time  to  be  looking  for 
the  fruit  of  this  tree,  which,  at  the  beginning,  was 
declared  to  be  so  full  of  golden  promise.  I  ask  you 
if  you  have  found  Spiritualism  j^articularly  nourishing 
to  yourself.  Are  you  a  better  man  than  you  were 
ten  years  ago  ?  How  much  progress  have  you  made 
toward  real  spirituality  ?  How  much  more  devout  is 
vour  worship  of  the  Great  God  than  it  was  before 


To  Salathiel  Fogg  Jones.  105 

you  were  convinced  of  the  immortality  of  your  o-v\ti 
soul  ?  How  much  have  your  affections  been  purified, 
your  love  of  spiritual  things  strengthened,  your  lust 
for  sensual  indulgence  diminished,  by  this  new  faith 
of  yours  ?  Has  your  sense  of  moral  obligation  grown 
stronger  ?  Has  your  benevolence  increased  ?  Has 
your  love  of  all  that  is  good  and  pure  grown  brighter, 
while  the  sensual  delights  of  your  animal  life  have 
faded  ?  These  are  important  questions  to  you,  and 
they  are  very  important  questions  to  Spiritualism 
itself. 

I  must  be  plain  with  you,  and  tell  you  that  if 
Spii-itualism  has  improved  you  I  have  failed  to  see  it. 
I  do  not  see  that  you  have  even  made  any  progress 
intellectually.  You  pretend  that  Spiritualism  reveals 
great  truths  in  which  abide  the  seeds  of  progress  and 
perfection  for  a  race,  but  these  seeds  do  not  germi- 
nate in  you.  On  the  contrary,  you  seem  content  to 
stand  at  the  threshold  of  your  new  religion,  and  to 
amuse  yourself  with  the  same  insignificant  phenomena 
which  first  attracted  your  attention.  I  hear  of  your 
holding  weekly,  or  semi-weekly,  sessions  or  "  circles  '' 
where  there  are  the  ringing  of  bells,  and  playing  of 
guitars,  and  the  scraping  of  fiddles,  and  the  tipping  of 
tables,  and  the  rubbing  of  faces,  and  the  rapping  of 
knuckles.  It  is  the  same  old  story  of  a  sort  of  frolic 
or  orgy  with  demons,   and  no  step  forward  into   a 


106  Letters  to  the  Jonefes. 

divine  life.  As  it  is  with  you,  so  is  it  with  all  that  1 
have  seen.  I  will  not  speak  of  the  immoralities  to 
which  Spiritualism  has  given  origin  or  opportunity. 
Free  love  is  not  a  plant  indigenous  to  Spiritualism. 
It  starts  in  human  nature,  and  grows  wherever  there 
is  license.  The  doctrine  of  "  affinities  "  is  as  old  as 
the  race,  and  has  found  its  advocates  among  the  beastlv 
of  all  races  and  the  bad  of  all  religions.  I  say  I  will 
not  speak  of  the  immoralities  which  have  been  asso- 
ciated with  Spiritualism,  because  they  are  not  peculiar 
to  it ;  but  I  say  that  I  cannot  perceive  that  you  make 
the  slightest  progress  intellectually — you  or  your  friends. 
You  have  always  been  busy  with  these  little  material 
phenomena,  which  have  no  more  spiritual  significance 
or  vitality  in  them  than  there  is  in  the  grunts  that 
come  from  a  pig-sty — not  half  as  much  as  there  is  in  a 
concert  by  Christy's  minstrels.  Has  Spiritualism 
nothing  more  in  it  for  you  than  this  ?  Is  this  the 
highest  food  it  has  to  offer  you  ?  Why,  you  ought 
to  be  intellectually  a  giant  by  this  time.  With  immor- 
tahty  demonstrated  to  you,  in  daily  communion  with 
the  spiritual  world,  with  vision  clarified  of  all  errors 
and  superstitions,  you  ought  to  have  made  advances 
which  would  prove  to  an  incredulous  world  that  Spirit- 
ualism has  in  it  the  seeds  at  least,  of  the  intellectual 
millennium.  It  is  not  necessary  for  me  to  tell  you 
that  you  have  done  no  such  thing.     You  have  been 


To  Salathiel  Fogg  Jones.  107 

mixed  up  with  two  or  three  fanciful  schemes  for 
social  improvement,  that  have  not  had  enough  of 
vitality  in  them  to  preserve  them  from  quick  degenera- 
tion, and  these  schemes  have  absorbed  all  your 
spiritual  activities.  Indeed,  I  think  these  "  circles " 
have  been  rather  dissipating  than  edifying  to  you. 

Literature  has  always  been  the  record  and  the  gauge 
of  every  form  of  civilization,  every  system  of  philoso- 
phy, and  every  scheme  of  religion  ;  and  nothing  is  more 
certain  than  that  any  religion  which  possesses  vitality 
will  permeate  and  inform  all  the  literature  associated 
with  it,  and  create  for  itself  a  literature  which  is  espe- 
cially the  product  of  its  life.  Thus,  with  the  Bible  for 
its  basis,  Christianity  has  created  a  literature  of  its 
own.  An  Alexandrian  library  could  not  contain  the 
books  which  cluster  around  the  Bible,  deriving  from  it 
their  sole  inspiration  and  significance,  and  receiving 
from  it  all  their  power,  while  there  is  not  a  book  of 
any  kind  written  within  the  pale  of  Christian  civiliza- 
tion which  is  not  modified  by  it.  And  literature  is  but 
one  of  the  forms  of  art  in  which  the  Christian  religion 
betrays  the  vitality  of  its  central  truths  and  ideas. 
There  is  hardly  a  department  of  painting  and  sculpture 
and  architecture  that  does  not  have  reference,  at  some 
point,  to  it,  while  many  departments  are  its  direct  out- 
growth and  oflEspring.  It  is  time  that  Spiritualism,  if 
it  possesses  such  claims  and  powers  as  are  ascribed  to 


108  Letters  to  the  Jonefes. 

it,  should  make  its  mark  on  literature  and  art.     Has  it 
done  so  ? 

I  think  that  you  cannot  fail  to  regard  the  literature 
that  has  been  the  direct  and  immediate  outgrowth  of 
Spiritualism  as,  on  the  whole,  of  an  exceedingly  frivo- 
lous, weak,  and  unworthy  character.  Spiritualism  has 
undertaken  to  deal  with  almost  all  forms  of  literary 
art.  It  has  put  forth  orations,  philosophical  disquisi- 
tions, revelations  concerning  the  unseen  world,  proph- 
ecies of  future  events,  and  poetry.  These  produc- 
tions purport  to  come  from  the  spirits  of  departed  men 
and  women,  who  assume  to  speak  from  actual  knowl- 
edge acquired  in  the  realm  of  spiritual  things.  The 
least  that  can  be  assumed  by  the  Spiritualist  is  that 
these  utterances  are  the  product  of  minds  purified  and 
exalted  by  freedom  from  the  grosser  animal  life  into 
which  they  were  originally  born,  strengthened  and  in- 
vigorated by  direct  contact  with  spiritual  truth,  and 
inspired  by  the  vision  of  those  realities  of  which  we 
can  only  form,  through  guess  and  conjecture,  the  faint- 
est idea.  I  say  that  this  is  the  least  that  can  be  as- 
sumed by  the  Spiritualist.  It  is  the  least  that  is  as- 
sumed by  you,  or  any  one  of  your  associates,  concern- 
ing the  utterances  of  your  best  spiritual  correspond- 
ents ;  yet  I  defy  you  to  point  me  to  a  smgle  oration 
originatmg  in  your  circles  that  can  compare  with  those 
of  Webster,  or  Burke,  or  Everett ;  a  smgle  philosophi- 


To  Salathiel  YoEp,  Jones.  lc9 


cal  discourse  that  betrays  the  brains  of  a  Bacon ;  a 
single  revelation  of  the  unseen  world  that  can  compare 
with  that  of  John ;  or  a  single  poem  that  is  not  sur- 
passed many  times  by  many  poems  from  the  pen  of  the 
lamented  Mrs.  BrowTiing.  You  are  lame  in  every  field 
in  which,  in  accordance  with  your  theories,  you  should 
walk  with  kingly  strides.  You  cannot  hold  in  con- 
tempt the  literary  judgments  of  the  world ;  and  the 
literary  judgments  of  the  world  are  against  you.  It  is 
the  decided  opinion  of  those  whose  opinion  you  are 
bound  to  respect,  that  your  theories  of  intellectual  and 
spiritual  progress  beyond  the  grave  are  shockingly  dis- 
proved by  the  products  of  the  minds  which  pretend  to 
address  us  from  it.  There  is  nothing  in  the  literature 
of  Spiritualism  which,  in  power  and  beauty,  and  prac- 
tical adaptation  to  the  wants  of  men,  and  skilful  use 
of  language,  can  compare  with  the  literature  written 
before  Spiritualism  made  its  first  rap.  Do  you  doubt 
it  ?  Look  at  the  alcoves  of  the  scholars  and  poets  of 
the  world,  and  mark  the  shelves  which  your  classics 
occupy.  They  are  not  there  at  all,  and  their  absence 
is  owing  to  the  simple  fact  that  they  are  not  worthy  to 
be  there.  Literature  is  catholic.  Literary  men  are  not 
particular  as  to  the  source  from  which  great  thoughts 
come,  and  they  will  gather  where  they  find  them. 
They  have  not  found  them  in  the  literature  of  Spiritu- 
alism.   I  state  this  as  a  fact,  which  you  cannot  deny ; 


110  Letters  to  the  Jonefes. 

and  I  appeal  to  the  literary  men  of  the  -world  as  my 
witnesses. 

In  the  degree  by  which  Spiritualism  has  failed  to 
produce  a  worthy  literature  of  its  own,  has  it  failed  to 
incoi'porate  itself  as  a  vital  force  into  any  literature. 
In  a  few  English  novels  we  have  seen  evidences  of  its 
presence,  but  even  there  it  has  furnished  only  machine- 
ry for  mysteries  and  not  ideas  for  life.  No  poet  of 
power  has  gone  to  it  for  his  inspirations.  While  mAny 
literati  have  been  attracted  to  its  marvels,  and  not  a 
small  number  of  them  have  acknowledcced  their  faith 
in  the  genuineness  of  its  "  manifestations,"  it  finds  no 
record  in  the  characteristic  products  of  their  pens. 
And  now,  in  view  of  all  these  facts,  I  declare  my  full 
conviction  that  Spiritualism,  notwithstanding  all  its 
high  pretensions  and  its  ambitious  efforts,  has  imported 
no  new  intellectual  food  into  the  world,  and  brought 
no  increment  to  its  intellectual  life.  Has  heaven  been 
opened,  my  friend,  to  scatter  crumbs  and  broken  vict- 
uals to  children  already  fed  with  bread  from  the  tree 
of  a  nobler  life  ?  Have  the  dead  come  back  to  prove 
to  you  and  me  that  they  have  only  made  progress 
toward,  or  into,  imbecility  and  idiocy  ?  Have  the 
angels  of  God  forgotten  to  be  wise,  and  the  saints  of 
God  learned  to  be  silly  ?  Is  a  religion,  or  a  system  of 
philosophy,  or  a  revelation  of  whatever  character,  good 
for  anything,  or  worthy  of  a  moment's  consideration, 


To  Salathiel  Fogg  Jones.  m 


which  gives  us  nothing  greater  and  more  abounding  in 
vitaHty  than  what  we  have  had  before — nothing  great 
and  vital  enough  to  create  a  literature  of  its  own,  which 
wUl  command  the  respect  of  the  world,  and  find  its 
way  through  various  channels  of  life  into  all  literature  ? 
You  have  common  sense — or  used  to  have.  Answer 
the  question, 

I  remember  very  well  the  boast  that  you  and  your 
friends  made,  a  few  years  ago,  that  the  world  was 
about  to  witness  a  new  dispensation,  through  the  min- 
istry and  the  revelations  of  Spiritualism.  "We  had  out- 
grown Christianity,  as  the  world  once  outgrew  Juda- 
ism, you  declared,  and  so,  burning  up  our  soiled  and 
worn-out  creeds,  and  casting  ofi"  the  clothing  of  the 
Christian  church,  which  had  grown  too  strait  for  us, 
we  were  to  emerge  into  a  brighter  light  and  a  freer 
and  a  nobler  life.  Well,  have  your  boasts  proved  to 
be  well  grounded  ?  You  must  not  complain  that  I  ask 
you  this  question,  and  say  that  I  do  not  give  you  time 
enough,  and  refer  me  to  the  difficulty  of  the  early  steps 
of  Christianity.  Spiritualism  was  born  into  a  very 
different  age  from  that  which  witnessed  the  advent  of 
Christianity.  There  was  no  steamboat,  no  railroad,  no 
telegraph,  no  xmiversal  newspaper,  no  printing  press, 
to  wait  upon  the  early  steps  of  Christianity.  The  first 
wail  in  the  little  village  of  Bethlehem  that  gave  notice 
of  the  advent  of  The  Redeemer  did  not  reach  outside 


112  Letters  to  the  Jonefes. 

of  the  walls  of  the  stable  where  he  lay ;  but  through 
the  ministry  of  modern  art — itself  the  child  of  Bethle- 
hem's child — the  first  rap  at  Rochester  was  heard 
throughout  the  nation.  Every  appliance  of  Christian 
civilization  has  waited  upon  the  early  steps  of  Spirit- 
ualism, and  within  fifteen  years  it  has  been  sown 
wherever  steam  and  lightning  can  travel,  and  men  can 
read  the  language  which  they  speak.  It  has  been  free 
to  do  what  it  woiild.  It  has  published  what  it  Avould. 
Prisons  and  scaffolds  have  not  threatened  those  who 
received  and  entertained  and  advocated  it.  It  has 
been  patronized  by  the  fashionable  and  the  titled. 
Royalty  itself  has  lent  its  eyes  and  ears  to  its  marv'els, 
and  petted  the  mediums  through  which  they  were 
wrought.  It  has  been  brought  fairly  before  the  world, 
and  now,  what  have  you  to  say  of  the  results  ? 

Preliminarily,  is  it  making  progress  to-day  ?  Does 
it  occupy  as  large  a  place  in  the  public  mind  of  this 
country  and  of  other  countries  as  it  did  some  years 
ago  ?  Is  it  winning  as  many  proselytes  as  it  was 
winning  ten  years  ago  ?  Has  it  not  already  called  to 
itself  its  own,  and  ceased  to  be  aggressive  ?  Is  it  not 
already  dying  from  lack  of  power  to  nourish  and  bless 
those  who  have  been  attracted  to  it  ?  It  is  probable 
that  you  would  not  answer  these  questions  as  I  should, 
yet  it  seems  to  me  as  if  there  could  be  but  one  answer 
to   them.     I  know  that,  as   far   as  my  acquaintance 


To  Salathiel  Fogg  Jones.  113 

reaches,  Spiritualism  is  making  neither  proselytes  nor 
progress,  and  that  many  of  those  who  were  once  its 
most  earnest  defenders  have  grown  cold  toward  it,  or 
careless  of  it.  It  has  sho'vvii  no  power  to  fertilize  so- 
ciety, and  no  disposition  to  organize  society  for  philan- 
thropic effort.  It  has  originated  a  few  Utopian  schemes 
that  promised  great  things  for  human  harmony  and 
happiness,  but  they  have  fallen  to  pieces,  light  and 
flimsy  as  they  were,  of  their  oavh  dead  weight.  I  can- 
not point  to  anything  that  Spiritualism  is  really  doing 
to  elevate,  purify,  and  save  mankind.  I  cannot  find  in 
it  that  principle  of  love  which  uproots  selfishness,  or 
leads  the  martyr  to  dare  his  death  of  fire. 

Now,  where  is  this  effete  Christianity  which  was  to 
be  displaced  by  Spiritualism  ?  There  never  was  a 
period  of  fifteen  years  in  its  history  when  it  made 
more  progress  than  it  has  made  since  Sjiiritualism  was 
announced.  The  greatest  revival  the  world  ever  saw 
has  occurred  during  that  period.  It  has  planted  its 
feet  in  new  fields,  and  is  everywhere  aggressive.  This 
Spiritualism,  which  was  to  supersede  it,  has  hardly 
been  a  fly  in  the  path  of  its  gigantic  progress.  It  is 
pusliing  its  silent,  individual  conquests,  and  organizing 
its  forces  in  the  wdlds  of  the  West,  on  the  shores  of 
the  Pacific,  in  Australia,  and  among  the  heathen  nations 
of  the  world.  It  is  gaining  new  victories  near  the  cen- 
tres of  its  power.     It  gives  no  sign  of  decay.     It  is 


114  Letters  to  the  Jonefes. 

more  and  more  widely  recognized  as  the  grand,  saving 
and  reforming  power  of  the  world — as  a  religion  to 
live  by  and  die  by.  It  finds  its  way  into  governmental 
institutions.  It  more  and  more  pervades  every  kind 
of  literature,  and  you  know  that  there  is  not  a  good 
thing  in  Spiritualism  that  Christianity  had  not  previ- 
ously promulgated. 

Thei'e  are  some  of  your  friends  who  will  deny  that 
Spiritualism  opposes  Christianity.  Indeed,  there  are 
some  who  claim  that  they  are  really  the  only  enlight- 
ened Christians  in  the  world,  Spiritualism  having  inter- 
preted Christianity  to  them.  You  are  too  honest  to 
tell  me  this,  I  know,  because  you  have  talked  very 
differently  to  me  many  times.  You  know  that  if  Spir- 
itualism is  not  in  opposition  to  Christianity,  as  a  system 
of  religion  and  of  salvation,  there  is  nothing  in  it  what- 
ever. You  know,  and  so  do  your  friends,  that  Spirit- 
ualism is  at  least  in  opposition  to  that  form  of  Chris- 
tianity which  prevails  in  the  world,  and  which  marks 
its  progress  by  such  marvellous  evidences  of  its  vitality 
and  power. 

My  friend,  you  are  eating  husks,  when  you  might 
have  corn.  Cut  the  delusion  loose,  for  it  is  a  dying 
thing.  There  is  nothing  more  in  it  for  you  or  the 
world — no  more  food,  nor  inspiration,  nor  light,  nor 
life,  nor  blessing.  All  the  good  fellows  are  going  my 
way.     Come  and  join  them. 


THE    EIGHTH    LETTER. 

^a  §cnjamm  d'ranhlin;  |oiTts,  glccljantr. 

CONCERNIXG  HIS  HABITUAL  ABSEN'CE   FROM    CHURCH    ON 

SUNDA  Y. 

I  HAVE  often  wondered  why  you  and  so  many 
who  are  engaged  in  mechanical  pursuits  should  be 
so  skeptical  in  all  matters  lying  outside  of  the  domain 
of  material  things.  There  seems  to  be  sonaething  in 
the  constitution  of  the  mechanical  mind,  or  somethincr 
in  the  nature  of  mechanical  pursuits,  which  tends  to 
infidelity.  It  is  notorious  that,  as  a  class,  the  mechan- 
ics of  this  country,  and  pai'ticularly  those  who  are 
engaged  in  such  branches  as  call  for  the  most  ingenuity 
and  skill,  are  given  to  unbelief.  I  cannot  explain  this. 
I  see  the  fact,  as  it  exists  in  manufacturing  commun- 
ities and  in  the  larger  cities,  and  am  entirely  at  a  loss 
to  account  for  it.  Why  is  it  that  constant  dealing  with 
the  laws  of  matter  and  second  causes  should  so  induce 


116  Letters  to  the  Jonefes. 

materialism,  and  so  hide  the  Great  First  Cause,  I  do 
not  know.  I  only  know  that  the  coldest  infidels  I  have 
ever  known — men  the  most  utterly  faithless  in  spii'itual 
things — ^men  skeptical  on  all  subjects  which  touch  reli- 
gion and  immortality,  and  revelation  and  God — are 
mechanics,  and  that  there  seems  to  be  something  in 
their  pursuits,  or  in  their  mental  constitution,  which 
makes  them  so. 

The  number  of  these  men  in  every  New  England 
community  is  large.  We  are  a  manufacturing  people, 
and  the  best  and  most  influential  minds  in  nearly  all 
our  manufacturing  towns  are  those  of  mechanics.  I 
have  been  surprised  at  the  contempt  in  which  religion 
and  its  institutions  are  held  in  some  New  England 
towns,  where  it  is  supposed  that  both  are  honored  in 
an  unusual  degree.  The  truth  is  that,  throughout  New 
England,  not  more  than  one  third  of  the  people  go  to 
church,  or  have  anything  to  do  with  its  support ;  and 
that  third  is  very  largely  composed  of  farmers  and 
merchants.  The  mechanical  and  manufacturing  inter- 
ests, notwithstanding  their  great  magnitude,  contribute 
compai'atively  little  to  the  maintenance  of  the  institu- 
tions of  Christianity.  None  are  more  aware  of  the 
truth  of  the  statements  which  I  make  than  Christian 
mechanics,  because  they  are  constantly  thrown  into  the 
society  of  those  of  their  own  class  whose  cold  and 
sneering  infidelity,  and  whose  habitual  disregard  of  the 


To  Benjamin  Franklin  Jones.  117 

Sabbath  and  all  Christian  institutions,  are  themes  of 
constant  sorrow  or  annoyance  to  them.  I  am  sorry  to 
believe  that  you  add  one  to  the  number  of  these  faith- 
less men,  and  particularly  sorry,  because  you  have  such 
natural  strength  of  mind  that  you  cannot  faU  to  have 
great  influence  upon  those  who  are  nearest  you — upon 
your  companions  and  your  family.  But  I  must  leave 
these  general  remarks,  for  I  began  with  the  intention 
to  say  something  to  you  upon  your  habit  of  staying 
away  from  church  on  Sundays. 

You  told  a  friend  of  mine  the  other  day  that  you 
had  not  put  your  foot  inside  of  a  church  for  ten  years. 
You  made  the  statement,  he  informed  me,  in  a  tone 
which  indicated  contempt  not  only  for  the  church 
itself  and  the  religion  which  it  represents,  but  for  all 
the  men  and  women  who  attend  it.  Now  I  like  your 
frankness.  There  is  something  in  your  position  which 
I  cannot  but  respect.  It  is  diflerent  from  that  of  the 
majority  of  those  who  spend  their  Simdays  in  laziness 
or  pleasure.  When  they  are  questioned  with  relation 
to  their  very  questionable  courses,  they  take  the  posi- 
tion of  culprits  at  once,  and  make  their  excuses,  always, 
however,  protesting  that  they  have  the  most  profoimd 
respect  for  religion  and  its  institutions.  They  make  a 
merit  of  this  respect,  and  put  it  forward  as  a  substitute 
for  the  thing  itself.  Fools  may  be  taken  in  by  this 
sort  of  talk,  but  God  and  wise  men  can  only  have  con- 


118  Letters  to  the  Jonefes. 

tempt  for  those  who  pretend  to  honor  a  religion  whose 
institutions  they  treat  with  persistent  neglect. 

If  we  speak  to  some  of  these  men  about  their  neg- 
lect of  attendance  upon  the  Simday  ministrations  of 
the  church,  they  will  say  that  they  can  worship  God  as 
weU  in  the  fields  as  they  can  in  the  sanctuary, — that 
they  can  commune  with  Him  quite  as  well  alone,  among 
the  beauties  of  nature,  as  in  the  great  congregation, 
surrounded  by  ribbons  and  artificial  flowers.  As  inde- 
pendent propositions,  these  may  be  sound.  I  will  not 
controvert  them ;  but  when  these  men  put  them  for- 
ward, they  do  it  for  the  purpose  of  skulking  behind 
them,  and  they  know  very  well  that  they  have  no  rela- 
tion to  their  case.  They  know  that  they  never  wor- 
ship God  in  the  fields,  and  that  they  would  be  fright- 
ened at  the  thought  of  any  actual  communion  ynih 
Him.  Others  will  denounce  the  impurities  and  imper- 
fections of  the  church,  or  find  fault  with  the  minister, 
or  certain  of  the  leading  members.  All  kinds  of  apol- 
ogies are  put  forward  by  these  poor  men  to  delude 
themselves  and  their  neighbors  with  the  belief  that 
they  are  really  better  than  those  who  go  to  church — 
that  they  have,  at  least,  quite  as  much  respect  for  reli- 
gion as  those  who  do. 

All  this  talk  disgusts  me,  for  I  know  that  there  is 
no  sincerity  in  it.  "When  a  man  tells  me  that  he  re- 
spects religion,  I  want  to  see  him  prove  it  in  some 


To  Benjamin  Franklin  Jones.  119 

practical  way.  If  he  really  respects  religion,  he  will 
give  his  life  to  it,  and,  as  the  smallest  possible  proof 
of  respect  that  he  can  render,  he  will  scrupulously  at- 
tend upon  its  ordinances,  and  show  to  the  world  the 
side  upon  which  he  washes  his  influence  to  count.  No, 
when  men  tell  me  that  they  respect  religion  and  oflfer 
in  evidence  only  their  studied  and  persistent  absence 
from  aU  Christian  ministrations,  I  have  simply  to  re- 
spond that  I  do  not  respect  them.  They  are  a  set  of 
hypocrites  and  humbugs.  They  talk  about  the  hypoc- 
risy of  the  church  !  There  is  not  such  another  set  of 
hypocrites  in  America,  as  those  who,  while  professing 
to  respect  Christianity,  devote  the  Christian  Sabbath 
to  their  own  selfish  ease  or  convenience,  and  regiJarly 
shun  the  assemblages  of  Christian  men  and  women. 
Sometimes  they  try  to  prove  their  sincerity  by  throw- 
ing in  their  wives  and  children.  They  will  tell  people 
that  they  hire  a  pew,  and  dress  their  wives  and  chil- 
dren for  the  public,  that  they  are  willing  that  they 
should  attend  church,  and  that  they  have  too  much 
respect  for  religion  to  stand  in  anybody's  way,  while 
by  every  Sunday's  example,  they  plainly  declare  to 
their  wives  and  cluldi'en  that  they  regard  the  church 
and  the  religion  which  it  represents  as  unworthy  of  the 
attention  of  a  rational  man. 

I   repeat,  then,  that   there  is  something  m   your 
position  Avhich  I  respect.     You  have  brought  yourself 


120  Letters  to  the  Jonefes. 

to  the  belief  that  Christianity  is  a  dehision — a  cheat. 
You  have  no  respect  for  religion,  and  do  not  hesitate 
to  express  your  contempt  for  it.  All  preaching  is 
blai'ney  and  cant  to  you  ;  all  prayer  is  blatant  nonsense 
addressed  to  a  phantom  of  the  imagination.  Practi- 
cally, your  companions  in  absence  from  the  church  on 
Sunday  occupy  your  most  decidedly  irreligious  po- 
sition, and  their  weakly  lingering  belief  in  the  ti'uth 
of  Christianity,  or  in  the  possibility  of  its  truth,  (which 
is  all  their  "respect"  means,)  might  as  well,  for  any 
practical  purpose,  be  disbelief.  You  are  really  better 
than  those  who  pretend  to  respect  religion,  and  who 
treat  it  with  the  same  contempt  that  you  do,  because 
you  are  not  a  hypocrite.  I  address  you  then  as  the 
most  respectable  and  decent  man  of  your  class. 

My  desire  is  to  give  you  one  or  two  good  reasons 
for  going  to  church  which  do  not  depend  upon  the 
authenticity  of  Christianity,  or  upon  the  sacredness  of 
the  Christian  Sabbath  at  all.  My  first  reason  is  that 
unless  a  man  puts  himself  into  a  fine  shirt,  polished 
boots,  and  good  clothes  once  a  week,  and  goes  out  into 
the  public,  he  is  almost  certain  to  sink  into  semi-bar- 
barism. You  know  that  unless  you  do  this  on  Sun- 
day, you  cannot  do  it  at  all,  for  you  labor  all  the  week. 
There  is  nothing  like  isolation  to  work  degeneration  in 
a  man.  There  is  nothing  like  standing  alone,  with  no 
place  in  the  machinery  of  society,  to  tone  down  one's 


To  Benjamin  Franklin  Jones.  121 

self-respect.  You  must  be  aware  that  you  are  not  in 
sympathy  with  society.  You  are  looked  upon  as  an 
outsider,  because  you  refuse  to  come  into  contact  with 
society  on  its  broadest  and  best  ground.  I  tell  you  it 
is  a  good  thing  for  a  man  to  wash  his  face  clean,  and 
put  on  his  best  clothes,  and  walk  to  the  house  of  God 
with  his  wife  and  children  on  Sundays,  whether  he 
believes  in  Christianity  or  not.  The  church  is  a  place 
where,  at  the  least,  good  morals  are  inculcated,  and 
where  the  vices  of  the  community  are  denounced.  You 
can  afford  to  stand  by  so  much  of  the  church,  and,  by 
doing  so,  say  "  Here  am  I  and  here  are  mine,  with  a 
stake  in  the  welfare  of  society,  and  an  interest  in  the 
good  morals  of  society."  My  friend,  this  little  oj^era- 
tion  gone  through  with  every  Simday  would  give  you 
self-respect,  help  you  to  keep  your  head  above  water, 
and  bring  you  into  sympathy  with  the  best  society  the 
world  possesses.  A  man  needs  to  beautify  himself 
with  good  clothes  occasionally  to  assure  himself  that  ho 
is  not  brother  to  the  beast  by  the  side  of  which  he 
labors  during  six  days  of  every  seven,  and  he  needs 
particularly  to  feel  that  he  has  place  and  consideration 
in  clean  society. 

Another  reas^on  why  you  should  go  to  church  on 
Sunday  is  that  you  need  the  intellectual  nourishment 
and  stimulus  which  you  can  only  get  there.  I  suppose 
that  you  do  not  often  consider  the  fact  that  the  great- 


122  Letters  to  the  Jonefes. 

est  amount  of  genuine  thinking  done  in  the  world  is 
done  by  preachers.  I  suppose  you  may  never  have 
reflected  that,  in  the  midst  of  all  this  din  of  business, 
and  clashing  of  various  interests — in  the  midst  of  the 
clamors "  and  horrors  of  war,  the  universal  pursuit  of 
amusements,  and  the  vanities  and  inanities  of  fashion, 
and  the  indulgence  of  multitudinous  vices,  there  is  a 
class  of  self-denying  men,  of  the  best  education  and 
the  best  talents  and  habits,  who,  in  their  quiet  rooms, 
are  thinking  and  writing  upon  the  purest  and  noblest 
themes  which  can  engage  any  mind.  Among  these 
men  may  be  fovmd  the  finest  minds  which  the  age 
knows — the  most  splendid  specimens  of  intellectual 
j)ower  that  the  world  contains.  The  bright  consum- 
mate flower  of  our  American  college  system  is  the 
American  ministry.  Among  these  men  are  many  who 
are  slow — stupid,  if  you  insist  upon  it — but  there  is  not 
one  in  one  thousand  of  them  who  does  not  know  more 
than  you  do.  You  can  learn  something  of  them  all, 
while  some  of  them  possess  more  brains  and  more 
available  intellectual  power  than  you  and  aU  your  re- 
latives combined.  I  tell  you  that  if  you  suppose  the 
American  pulpit  to  be  contemptible,  you  are  very 
much  mistaken.  You  have  staid  away  from  it  for  ten 
years.  During  all  these  ten  years  I  have  attended  its 
weekly  ministrations,  and  I  have  a  better  right  to 
speak  about  it  than  you  have,  because  I  know  more 


To  Benjamin  Franklin  Jones. 


123 


about  it.  I  tell  you  that  I  have  received  during  these 
ten  years  more  intellectual  nourishment  and  stimulus 
from  the  pulpit  than  from  all  other  sources  combined, 
yet  my  e very-day  pursuits  are  literary  while  yours  are 
not. 

There  is  something  in  the  jJ^^rsuits  of  working  men 
— I  mean  of  men  who  follow  handicraft — which  renders 
some  intellectual  feeding  on  Sunday  peculiarly  neces- 
sary. You  work  all  day,  and  when  you  get  home  at 
night,  you  can  do  nothing  but  read  the  news,  and  in- 
dulge in  neighborhood  gossip.  You  are  obliged  to 
rise  early  in  the  morning,  and  that  makes  it  necessary 
that  you  should  go  to  bed  early  at  night.  You  really 
have  no  time  for  intellectual  culture  except  on  Sun- 
day, and  then  you  are  too  dull  and  tired  to  sit  down 
to  a  book.  You  always  go  to  sleep  over  any  book  that 
tajces  your  brain  at  all.  You  know  that  there  is  noth- 
mg  but  the  living  voice  which  can  hold  your  atten- 
tion, and  you  know  that  that  voice  can  only  be  heard 
in  the  pulpit.  The  working  man  who  shuns  the  pulpit 
on  the  Sabbath,  voluntarily  relinquishes  the  only  regu- 
larly available  intellectual  nourishment  of  his  life. 
You  need  not  tell  me  that  the  pulpit  has  no  intellectual 
nourishment  for  you.  I  know  better.  Philosophy, 
casuistry,  history,  metaphysics,  science,  poetry — these 
all  are  at  home  in  the  pulpit.  All  high  moraUties  are 
taught  there.     All  sweet  charities  are  inculcated  there. 


124  Letters  to  the  Jonefes. 

There  are  more  argument  and  illustration  brought  to 
the  support  and  enforcement  of  religious  truths  than 
all  the  other  intellectual  magazines  of  the  world  have 
at  command ;  and,  quarrel  with  the  facts  as  you  may, 
you  must  go  to  church  on  Sunday,  and  hear  the  preach- 
ing, or  be  an  intellectual  starveling.  Your  brain  is 
just  as  certain  to  degenerate — your  intellect  is  just  as 
certain  to  grow  dull — imder  this  habit  of  staying  at 
home  from  church,  as  a  plant  is  to  grow  pale  when 
hidden  away  from  the  sun. 

But  you  respond  that  you  will  not  attend  church 
because  you  do  not  believe  in  the  doctrines  that  are 
preached  there.  Do  you  refuse  to  attend  a  political 
meeting  which  a  gifted  speaker  is  to  address,  because 
you  are  not  of  his  way  of  thinking  ?  Do  you  stay 
away  from  the  lecture  of  a  man  who  has  brains,  because 
you  cannot  indorse  his  sentiments  ?  Why,  you  are 
behind  the  age,  man.  The  most  jDopular  lecturers  of 
America  have  for  years  been  those  who  have  repre- 
sented the  princij^les  and  sentiments  of  a  small  mi- 
nority. Intellectual  men  have  maintained  their  place 
upon  the  platform  when  their  persons  and  their  princi- 
ples were  held  in  abhorrence  by  the  masses  whom  they 
addressed.-  It  is  not  necessary  for  me  to  mention 
names,  to  prove  this  statement,  for  the  facts  are  too 
fresh  and  too  notorious.  Do  you  decline  to  attend  a 
circus  because  the  performers  differ  with  you  as  to  the 


To  Benjamin  Franklin  Jones.  125 

number  of  horses  it  is  proper  for  a  man  to  ride  at  one 
time  ?  Is  it  possible  that  you,  who  have  been  charging 
bigotry  upoja  the  church  and  its  representatives  so 
long,  are  a  bigoted  man  ?  Is  it  possible  that  you,  who 
have  denounced  the  American  Christian  ministry  for 
intolerance,  are  intolerant  yourself?     It  looks  like  it. 

My  friend,  you  are  lame  in  this  matter.  Your 
j)Osition  is  a  very  weak  one.  It  is  not  based  in  any 
princi2:)le — it  is  based  in  prejudice.  Besides,  you  are 
not  truthful  when  you  say  that  the  utterances  of  the 
pulpit  generally  are  incredible.  I  have  been  a  const-ant 
attendant  at  church  all  my  life,  and  I  declare  without 
hesitation  that  three  quarters  of  the  sermons  I  have 
heard  have  been  other  than  doctrinal  sermons.  The 
majority  of  the  sermons  preached  have  their  foimda- 
tion  in  the  eternal  principles  of  right — in  the  broad 
moralities  to  which  you  and  every  other  decent  man 
subscribes.  You  know  that,  as  a  system  of  morals, 
Christianity  is  faultless.  You  know  that  if  the  world 
should  live  up  to  the  morals  of  Christianity — we  will 
say  nothing  about  it  as  a  system  of  religion — there 
would  be  no  murder,  no  war,  no  slavery,  no  drimken- 
ness,  no  licentiousness,  no  lying,  no  stealing,  no  cheat- 
ing, no  wrong, — that  everywhere  men  would  walk  in 
peace  and  concord  and  fraternal  affection,  and  that  the 
golden  rule  would  be  the  universal  rule  of  life.  The 
pulpit  is  the  spot  of  all  others  in  the  world  where. 


126  Letters  to  the  Jonefes. 

through  the  wonderful  agency  of  the  human  voice, 
these  morals  are  taught ;  and  do  you  tell  me  that  you 
will  not  go  to  church  because  you  do  not  believe  in 
what  is  taught  there  ?  You  do  believe  in  at  least  three 
quarters  of  the  teachings  of  the  jDulpit.  You  do  your- 
self great  wrong  by  holding  yourself  aloof  from  an 
institution  which  would  not  only  noui-ish  your  intellect, 
but  instruct  and  confirm  you  in  those  moralities  which 
are  the  only  safeguard  of  that  society  which  numbers 
among  its  members  your  wife  and  children. 

Perhaps  you  can  afibrd,  or  feel  that  you  can  afibrd, 
to  teach  your  children  that  Christianity,  as  a  system  of 
religion,  is  a  cheat,  but  you  cannot  .afiord  to  confound 
with  it,  and  condemn  with  it,  the  moralities  of  Christian- 
ity. You  cannot  afibrd  to  teach  your  children  by  words 
or  deeds  that  the  great  mass  of  the  teachings  of  the  pul- 
pit are  imworthy  of  consideration ;  for  their  safety,  their 
respectability,  their  prosperity,  their  happiness,  all  de- 
pend upon  the  adoption  and  j^ractice  of  Chiistian  morals. 
Do  you  teach  them  Christian  morals  ?  Are  you  care- 
ful to  sit  down  on  the  Sabbath,  or  at  any  other  time, 
and  instruct  them  in  those  moralities  that  are  essential 
to  the  right  and  happy  issue  of  their  lives  ?  My  friend, 
you  have  not  the  face  to  do  any  such  thing,  for  your 
position  will  not  permit  you  to  do  it  without  shame. 
Well,  if  you  refuse  to  do  it,  who  will  ?  Unhappily 
your  wife  is  quite  as  much  under  your  influence  as  your 


To  Benjamin  Franklin  Jones  127 

children,  and  unless  those  children  go  to  church  on 
Sunday,  they  wiU  get  no  instruction  in  Christian 
morals  whatever,  except  such  as  they  may  pick  up  at 
the  public  schools. 

These  children  of  yours  are  not  to  blame  for  being 
in  the  world.  They  came  forth  from  nothingness  in 
answer  to  your  call,  and  they  are  on  your  hands.  You 
are  responsible  to  them,  at  least,  for  their  right  train- 
ing. You  are  in  personal  honor  bound  to  give  them 
such  instruction  in  morals  as  will  tend  to  preserve  to 
them  health  of  body  and  mind,  and  honorable  relations 
with  society.  How  will  you  do  it  ?  By  telling  them 
that  church-going  is  foolishness,  and  Sabbath-keeping 
nonsense,  and  the  teachings  of  the  pulpit  only  the 
tricks  of  pi'iestcraft  and  the  amusement  of  blockheads  ? 
No,  sir.  You  must  take  these  children  by  the  hand 
and  lead  them  to  church,  and  show  that  there  are,  at 
least,  some  things  that  come  from  the  pulpit  which 
you  respect.  It  will  not  be  enough  that  you  send  them 
and  their  mother.  You  must  go  with  them,  for,  if 
you  do  not,  they  will  soon  learn  the  realities  of  the 
pulpit,  and,  in  learning  them,  learn  to  pity  you,  and  to 
hold  your  intolerance  in  contempt.  You  must  stand 
by  the  pulpit  as  the  great  teacher  of  private  and  pub- 
lic morality,  or  do  an  awful  injustice  to  the  children 
for  whose  life  and  healthy  education  you  are  re- 
sponsible. 


THE   NINTH    LETTER. 

£^0  5H;ts^'mgton;  ^Ilston  lottos. 

CONCERNING  THE  POLICY   OF  MAKING  HIS  BRAINS 
MARKETABLE. 

JUDGING  from  recent  conversations  vnXh.  you,  and 
from  many  things  I  have  heard  about  you,  you 
are  not  satisfied,  with  the  results  of  your  life,  thus  far. 
You  have  tried  various  fields  of  efibrt,  and  have  failed 
of  the  success  you  sought  in  all.  You  know  my  honest 
friendship  for  you,  and  the  measurable  respect  which 
I  entertain  not  only  for  your  intellectual  gifts,  but  for 
that  high  ideal  of  art  and  its  mission  which  has  been 
the  only  bar  to  your  reward.  You  wrote  a  novel, 
which  failed,  simply  because  you  refused  to  write  one 
which  would  succeed.  You  erected  a  standard  in  your 
own  soul,  bowed  to  your  standard,  and  then  was  dis- 
gusted because   the   humanity  upon   which   you  had 


To  Wafliington  Allfton  Jones.  129 

turned  your  back  would  not  applaud  your  doings.  You 
wrote  a  poem,  classical  without  a  doubt — powerful  and 
beautiful  in  its  way  beyond  question — but,  somehow, 
the  poem  had  no  point  of  sjTiipathy  with  the  age  which 
you  believed  ought  to  receive  and  love  it.  Behind 
these  two  books  you  sat  in  imperial  pride,  disgusted 
with  a  world  which  seemed  so  little  in  knowledge  and 
so  low  in  feeling — so  unable  to  appreciate  you,  and  so 
ready  to  give  its  applause  to  men  of  slenderer  faculty 
and  shallower  motive.  Will  you  permit  me  to  say  to 
you  now,  before  it  is  too  late,  that  the  world  will  never 
come  to  you,  and  that  you  must  go  to  the  world  or  die 
voiceless  ? 

My  friend,  the  world  is  not  in  want,  just  at  this 
time,  of  life-size  portraits  in  oil,  with  all  their  stately 
conventional  accompaniments.  The  world  happens  to 
want  photographs,  and  will  have  nothing  but  photo- 
graphs. You  choose  to  stand  by  your  pigments  and 
your  canvas  and  your  camel's  hair,  and  to  starve,  while 
all  the  world  rushes  by  you  to  patronize  the  sun.  You 
imagine  that  it  would  degrade  you  to  have  anything  to 
do  with  photographs.  Yoii  would  not  make  one — you 
would  not  color  one — you  would  not  touch  one  with 
one  of  your  fingers,  because  your  idea  of  art,  or  what 
you  choose  to  consider  art,  is  so  high,  that  you  could 
have  nothing  to  do  "svith  the  production  of  a  photo- 
graph without  a  sense  of  humiliation.  You  will  die 
6* 


130  Letters  to  the  Jonefes. 

rather  than  disgrace  the  art  to  which  you  are  in  honor 
married,  and  degrade  the  standard  you  have  erected 
for  yourself.  Die,  my  friend,  if  it  will  be  any  satisfac- 
tion to  you ;  but  the  world  will  never  thank  you  for 
it,  and,  moreover,  will  vote  you  a  fool  for  your  volun- 
tary sacrifice.  The  only  way  for  you  is  to  meet  the 
want  of  the  woi'ld  and  make  photographs — make  the 
best  photographs  the  world  has  seen — so  that  it  shall 
come  to  you  and  ask  you  to  do  it  favors,  and.  beg 
the  privilege  of  paying  you  much  honor  and  much 
money. 

I  confess  to  you  again  that  I  have  a  measurable 
respect  for  that  ideal  of  art  which  refuses  all  com- 
promise with  popular  prejudice,  and,  standing  alone, 
strives  to  compel  the  homage  of  the  world,  and  failing, 
stands  in  self-complacent  pride  to  pity  and  despise 
those  who  will  not  bow  to  it.  Yet  this  ideal,  upon 
which  the  issue  of  your  life  seems  to  be  turning,  has  in 
it,  to  a  fatal  degree,  the  element  of  selfishness.  My 
friend,  what  is  art  but  a  minister  ?  What  is  art  but  a 
vehicle  by  which  you  may  transport  the  life  which  is 
in  you  to  the  souls  by  which  you  are  surrounded — for 
their  good,  and  not  for  yours  ?  Cut  off  from  its  rela- 
tions to  life — to  the  life  which  produces  it,  and  that  to 
which  it  is  addressed — standing  by  itself — what  is  art 
but  a  phantom  ? — a  nothing  with  a  name  ?  God  has 
endowed  you  with  intellectual  wealth.     He  has  given 


To  Walliington  Allfton  Jones,  131 

you  great  powers,  and  set  you  upon  a  throne  where 
you  can  reason  and  judge  and  reach  outward  and  up- 
ward into  great  imaginations ;  he  has  given  you  the 
power  to  sj)eak  and  to  sing.  For  wliat  purpose  ?  Is 
it  that  you  may  selfishly  shut  this  wealth  of  yours  into 
a  cofier,  and  close  the  lips  of  your  utterance,  from  obe- 
dience to  a  standard  of  art  which  has  more  reference 
to  you  than  to  the  world  to  which  you  owe  service  ? 
You  are  rich  and  must  dispense.  Who  gave  you  your 
wealth  ?  Is  it  for  you  to  stand  and  higgle  with  the 
world  about  the  form  or  style  in  which  it  shall  receive 
your  gifts  ?  Is  it  for  you  to  declare  that  the  world 
shall  have  none  of  your  expression,  unless  it  be  accept- 
ed in  a  certain  form,  which  form  shall  have  supreme 
consideration  ? 

You  have  carried  your  reverence  for  your  idea  of 
art  and  your  contempt  for  those  who  will  not  regard  it 
so  far  that  you  cannot  speak  with  patience  of  those 
who  succeed  in  the  fields  which  have  witnessed  your 
failure.  You  have  learned  to  despise  those  whom  the 
world  applauds,  because  you  think  the  world's  applause 
can  only  be  won  by  treachery  to  art.  This  contempt 
for  those  who  succeed  is  the  logical  result  of  your  ovra 
failure  ;  and  now  you  sit  alone,  in  selfish  pride,  a  mar- 
tyr, as  you  suppose,  to  your  better  ideal  and  your  high- 
er aim,  the  world  imconscious  meanwhile  that  you  have 
in  you  the  power  to  move  and  bless  it.     You  have  told 


132  Letters  to  the  Jonefes. 

me  tliat  you  distrust  a  book  which  sells,  and  have 
spoken  with  undisguised  contempt  of  men  who  carry 
"  marketable  brains,"  as  you  were  i:>leased  to  call 
them. 

And  now  we  get  at  our  subject.  What  are  brains 
good  for  that  are  not  marketable  ?  My  belief  is  that 
a  man  who  has  brains  is  in  duty  bound  to  make  them 
marketable.  My  position  is  that  unless  mind,  under 
Christian  direction  and  control,  is  marketable,  it  is  use- 
less ;  and  you  must  permit  me  to  use  the  word  market- 
able in  the  largest  sense.  The  world  is  as  we  find  it 
— not  as  we  would  have  it.  We  write,  we  speak,  we 
paint,  we  give  utterance  to  all  forms  of  art,  in  order 
to  make  the  world  richer  and  better ;  and  unless  the 
world  will  receive  what  we  utter,  and  take  it  into  its 
life,  it  is  not  benefited,  and  our  utterance  is  a  failure. 
There  are  doubtless  a  few  great  souls,  laboring  in  some 
difiicult  departments  of  art,  that  must  labor  for  the 
few,  and  through  these  few  find  their  way  to  the 
world,  but  these  are  exceptional  cases.  Yours  is  not 
one,  for  you  have  imdertaken  only  to  address  the 
world  at  large,  and  it  is  your  fault  that  you  have 
failed.  You  would  not  take  the  world  as  you  found  it. 
You  intended  that  the  world  should  take  you  as  it 
'found  you.  You  did  not  go  to  the  world  to  sell, 
throwing  yourself  into  its  markets,  but  you  stood  at 
your  own  door,  determined  to  compel  the  world  to 


To  Walhington  Allfton  Jones.         133 

come  to  you  and  buy.     The  world  did  not  come,  and  I 
do  not  blame  it. 

In  intellectual  no  less  than  in  commercial  affairs, 
the  market  is  the  first  consideration.  The  manufac- 
turer never  adopts  one  style  of  fabric  as  that  to  which 
alone  his  efforts  at  production  shall  be  devoted,  but 
studies  the  market,  and  shifts  his  machinery  and  modi- 
fies his  material  in  accordance  with  the  indications  of 
the  market.  We  hear  of  certain  preachers  who  preach 
great  sermons,  such  as  a  few  only  love  to  hear,  or  have 
the  power  to  remember  and  appropriate.  They  have 
no  right  to  preach  such  sermons.  If  they  have  any 
gold  in  them,  they  should  reduce  it  to  coin  that  will 
pass  current  with  the  people.  There  is  a  stiff  and 
stilted  set  in  occupation  of  many  of  the  American  pul- 
pits, who  suspect  a  preacher  who  is  very  popular,  and 
hold  in  contempt  him  who  places  himself  in  thorough 
sympathy  with  the  crowd  around  him  that  he  may 
reach  and  hold  them,  and  who  are  particularly  dis- 
gusted with  what  they  call  "  sensation  preaching."  It 
seems  better  to  them  to  preach  to  small  congregations 
than  to  draw  large  houses  by  making  their  preaching 
marketable.  Is  this  being  all  things  to  aU  men,  that 
they  may  save  some  ?  Not  at  all.  It  is  being  one 
thing  to  a  few  men,  whether  they  save  any  or  not.  St. 
Paul  iinderstood  the  matter  of  making  his  intellectual 
gifts  and  his  preaching  marketable.     We  know  writers 


134  Letters  to  the  Jonefes. 

of  magnificent  powers — some  of  them  who  are  certainly 
very  greatly  your  superiors  in  mental  acquisitions — 
who  are  biirying  their  gifts  in  books  that  find  no  buy- 
ers. These  men  might  as  well  be  horseblocks,  so  far 
as  the  world  is  concerned.  They  are  doing  nothing 
for  the  world.  They  have  not  consulted  its  market, 
and  appear  to  know  and  care  nothing  about  its  wants. 
We  know  orators  who  never  let  themselves  down  to 
minister  to  the  desire  of  those  whom  they  address  to 
be  melted  and  moved,  but  who,  with  stately  dignity, 
insist  on  being  rational  and  dull,  and  on  driving  from 
them  those  whom  they  desire  to  hold. 

You,  my  friend,  sympathize  with  all  these  men,  but 
do  you  not  see  how  much  a  selfish  pride  lies  at  the 
basis  of  their  action  ?  I  give  you  and  them  credit  for 
that  self-respect  which  shrinks  from  the  tricks  of  the 
mountebank  and  the  demagogue,  but  I  charge  you  and 
them  with  a  pride  which  is  not  consistent  with  the 
position  of  the  artist  as  a  minister  of  life.  With  all 
your  nobleness  of  nature,  you  have  never  been  able  to 
conceive  of  a  higher  motive  of  action,  in  a  literary  man, 
than  the  ambition  to  achieve  literary  distinction.  You 
do  not  understand  how  a  man  can  undertake  a  literary 
enterpi'ise  which  has  not  literary  reputation  for  its  ob- 
ject ;  and  when  some  book  is  uttered  for  the  simple 
purpose  of  doing  good,  by  one  who  has  it  in  him  to  do 
great  things  for  himself — a  book  which  does  not  even 


To  Wafliington  AMon  Jones.  135 


pretend  to  literary  merit  beyond  that  which  lies  in 
adapting  means  to  ends — you  curl  your  lip  in  contempt 
for  his  voluntary  degradation.  He  writes  for  a  mar- 
ket, and  the  world  accepts  him,  and  he  does  the  world 
good ;  and  if  he  did  not  write  for  a  market,  the  world 
would  spurn  him  as  it  spurns  you ;  and  he  would  be 
deprived  as  you  are  of  the  privilege  of  doing  the  world 
good. 

I  suppose  you  hug  to  yourself  the  delusion  that 
you  are  in  advance  of  your  age,  and  that  what  it  fails 
to  appreciate,  posterity  will  receive  at  its  full  value. 
To  leave  out  of  consideration  the  selfishness  of  this 
fancy — as  if  you  and  your  reputation  were  the  only 
things  to  be  taken  into  account — let  me  assure  you  that 
the  coming  age  Avill  have  its  own  heroes  to  look  after, 
and  will  stand  a  very  small  chance  of  stumbling  upon 
your  dead  novel  and  your  still-born  poem.  Sir,  the 
only  way  for  you  to  win  the  reputation  which  I  know 
you  desire,  is  to  throw  your  life — your  fhinking  and 
acting  self — into  this  age,  as  a  power  to  uplift  and 
mould  and  bless  it.  You  must  come  into  the  market. 
Tou  must  shape  your  utterances  to  the  want  of  the 
times.  You  must  be  content  to  work  for  others,  for- 
getful of  yourself,  and  to  give  to  men,  in  cups  from 
which  they  wiU  drink  it,  that  hfe  with  which  God  has 
filled  you. 

But  you  despise  your  age.   The  age  has  not  treated 


136  Letters  to  the  Jonefes. 

you  well.     The  age  is  vulgar  and  low  and  rude  and 

ungrateful.    The  age  is  mercenary  and  immoral.    Your 

wounded  self-love  has  misled  you,  sir.     You  are  living 

iu  the  greatest  age  of  the  world,  and  your  soul  only 

needs  to  be  attuned  to  its  great  movements  and  events 

to   find  itself  coined  into  words   for   their  majestic 

music. 

"  Every  age 
Appears  to  souls  who  live  in  it  (ask  Carlyle) 
Most  unheroic.     Ours,  for  instance,  ours  ! 
The  thinkers  scout  it  and  the  poets  abound 
"Who  scorn  to  touch  it  with  a  finger-tip  ; 
A  pewter  age — mixed  metal,  silver- washed ; 
An  age  of  scum,  spooned  off  the  richer  past ; 
An  age  of  patches  for  old  gaberdines  ; 
An  age  of  mere  transition,  meaning  nouglit 
Except  that  what  succeeds  must  shame  it  quite, 
If  God  please." 

And  now,  as  I  have  broached  Mrs.  Browning  upon 

this  point,  I  will  go  farther  and  let  her  sing  the  rest 

of  my  paragraph : 

"  Nay,  if  there's  room  for  poets  in  the  world 
A  little  overgrown  (I  think  there  is), 
Their  sole  work  is  to  represent  the  age — 
Their  age,  not  Charlemagne's — this  live,  throbbing  age, 
That  brawls,  cheats,  maddens,  calculates,  aspires, 
And  spends  more  passion,  more  heroic  heat, 
Betwixt  the  mirrors  of  its  drawing  rooms, 
Than  Eoland  with  his  knights  at  Eoncesvalles. 
To  flinch  from  modern  varnish,  coat,  or  flounce. 
Cry  out  for  togas  and  the  picturesque. 
Is  fatal — foolish  too.  *        *         * 


To  Wafliington  Allfton  Jones.         137 

"Never  flinch, 
But,  still  unscrupulously  epic,  catch 
Upon  the  burning  lava  of  a  song 
The  full-veined,  heaving,  double-breasted  age  ; 
That,  when  the  next  shall  come,  the  men  of  that 
May  touch  the  impress  with  reverent  hand,  and  say, 
'  Behold — behold  the  paps  we  all  have  sucked ! ' " 

"  This  is  living  art, 
Which  thus  presents  and  thus  records  true  life." 

Do  what  you  can  to  make  your  age  great.  Be  alike 
its  minister  and  its  mouthpiece.  Give  yourself  to  your 
age,  and  your  age  will  take  care  of  you,  and  the  ages 
to  come  will  be  the  guardians  of  your  fame. 

When  you  spoke  to  me  of  "  marketable  brains,"  I 
understood  you  of  course  to  use  the  phrase  in  a  lower 
sense  than  that  in  which  I  have  used  it.  I  have  not 
adopted  your  meaning,  simply  because  it  walks  in  the 
shadow  of  mine.  A  man  who  adapts  the  products  of 
his  brain  to  the  real  wants  of  the  world,  is  the  man 
who  sells  his  books  and  makes  money  by  them.  You 
ought  to  be  sensible  enough  to  know  that  a  man  who 
writes  from  no  higher  motive  than  the  desire  to  win 
money,  cannot  meet  the  wants  of  the  world,  and  that 
he  who  writes  a  marketable  book  must  necessarily  be 
something  better  than  a  mercenary  wretch  who  would 
sell  all  that  is  godlike  in  him  for  gold.  Yet  I  will  ad- 
mit that  the  desire  to  win  bread — nay,  the  ambition  to 
acquire   a   competent    wealth — is,   in  its   subordinate 


138  Letters  to  the  Jonefes. 

place,  a  worthy  motive  in  impelling  the  artist  to  make 
his  brains  marketable.  Commerce  puts  its  brains  into 
the  market,  and  nobody  cries  out  "  shame,"  or  hints  at 
humiliation.  The  brains  of  all  this  working,  trading, 
scheming  world  are  in  the  market.  These  "  marketable 
brains  "  are  the  pabulum  of  progress  everywhere  ;  and  a 
writer  is  good  for  nothing  for  the  world  who  does  not 
understand  what  it  is  to  work  for  a  living — what  it  is 
to  expend  life  for  the  means  of  continuing  life.  Nay, 
I  would  go  farther,  and  say  that  God  has,  by  direct 
intent,  compelled  the  worker  in  all  departments  of  art 
to  make  his  brains  marketable,  imder  penalty  of 
starving. 

I  know,  my  friend,  that  this  is  all  very  disgusting 
to  you.  You  feel  that  the  artist  ought  to  be  king,  and 
that  grateful  men  should  only  be  too  glad  to  do  homage 
and  bring  gifts  to  him.  You  are  wrong.  The  people 
are  kings,  and  you  are  their  servant.  The  law  an- 
nounced by  the  Great  Teacher  on  this  point  is  univer- 
sal, and  without  exception.  A  man  is  felt  to  be  great 
only  by  reason  of  his  power  to  minister  to  the  life 
aroimd  him.  Life  licks  the  hand  that  feeds  it.  You 
think  it  a  degradation  to  go  to  the  world  with  your 
brains,  adapting  their  product  to  the  popular  want,  and 
taking  your  pay  in  the  currency  of  the  coimtry  ;  but  it 
is  this  or  something  worse.  Think  of  those  kings  of 
the  old  English  literature,  who  were  obliged  to  sit  and 


sneak  in  the  anterooms  of  nobles,  and  beg  the  patron- 
age of  the  rich  and  great,  and  become  lickspittles  for 
the  sake  of  the  influence  that  would  sell  their  books, 
and  give  them  position,  and  furnish  them  with  bread 
to  starve  on  and  a  garret  to  die  in.  The  world  will 
not  buy  what  it  does  not  want,  and  you  are  imreason- 
able  if  you  blame  it.  You  thirst  for  the  world's  praise, 
you  need  its  money,  you  really  envy  the  success  of 
others,  and  because  praise  and  money  and  success  are 
denied  you,  you  button  your  coat  to  your  chin,  turn  up 
your  nose  to  the  world,  and,  "  grand,  gloomy,  and  pe- 
culiar," stand  apart. 

You  mistake  entirely  if  you  suppose  the  world  to 
be  a  contemptible  master ;  and  this  failure  to  appre- 
ciate the  world — this  persistent  under-estimate  of  the 
world — which  you  and  all  of  your  class  entertain,  is 
enough  to  account  for  your  failure.  The  Avorld  deals 
with  practical  life,  and  is  guided  by  experience  and 
common  sense.  The  world  is  at  work  to  win  bread 
and  raiment  and  shelter.  The  world  digs  the  field, 
and  searches  the  seas,  and  trades,  and  manufactures, 
and  builds  railroads  and  telegraphs  and  ships,  and 
prints  and  reads  newspapers.  The  world  is  full  of  the 
cares  of  government.  The  world  fights  battles  and 
pays  taxes.  The  world  is  under  a  great  pressure  of 
care  and  work.  This  working,  trading,  fighting,  care- 
ful world  holds  within  itself  the  great,  vital  forces  of 


society,  the  practical  interests  of  humanity,  the  wisest, 
brightest,  noblest  minds  that  live.  And  this  world,  for 
which  you  have  such  contempt,  is  the  only  competent 
judge  of  the  artist,  and  is  always  the  final  judge  of 
art.  "  The  light  of  the  public  square  will  test  its  val- 
ue," said  l^Iichael  Angelo  to  the  young  sculptor  whose 
work  he  was  examining.  The  remark  was  the  bow  of 
a  respectful  servant  to  his  master.  You  can  write  for 
dillettanti  if  you  choose — for  an  audience  "  fit,  though 
few  " — for  the  fellows  of  the  mutual  admiration  socie- 
ty— and  they  will  praise  you ;  but  you  know  that  if 
you  fail  to  get  hold  of  this  world  which  you  aifect  to 
despise,  you  are  powerless  and  without  reward  as  a 
literary  man. 

As  I  think  of  your  kingly  gifts  of  intellect,  and  of 
the  power  there  is  in  you  to  bless  mankind,  art  itself 
appears  before  me  in  the  likeness  of  Him  who  wore 
the  seamless  robe  among  humble  disciples,  and  the 
crown  of  thorns  between  thieves.  Ah  !  when  art  be- 
comes the  mediator  between  genius  and  the  world, 
then  does  it  answer  to  its  noblest  ideal,  and  confer  the 
greatest  glory  upon  the  artist.  You,  in  your  realm, 
are  almost  as  incomprehensible  and  unapproachable 
by  the  world  as  God  was,  before  He  expressed  His 
love  and  His  practical  good  will  through  the  gift  of 
The  Beloved.  He  had  wrought  augustly  in  the  heav- 
ens, and  filled  the  earth  ^vdth  glory.     He  had  crowded 


To  Wafliington  Allfton  Jones.         141 

immensity  with  the  tokens  of  His  powei'  and  the  ex- 
pressions of  His  majestic  thought ;  but  the  world  did 
not  see  Him — would  not  receive  Him — regarded  Him 
without  reverence.  Why  should  He  not  despise  the 
world  ?  Why,  falling  back  upon  the  dignity  of  His 
Godhood,  and  sufficient  for  himself,  did  He  not  spurn 
the  race  Avhich  so  disgraced  itself  and  Him  ?  Ah  !  He 
pitied.  He  respected  the  characteristics  of  the  nature 
He  had  made.  He  sent  the  choicest  child  of  His  Infin- 
ite Bosom  down  into  the  world  to  wear  its  humblest 
garb,  and  eat  its  homeliest  fare,  and  perform  its  mean- 
est oifices,  and  die  its  most  terrible  and  disgraceful 
death,  that  the  world  might  drink  through  Him  the 
life  of  the  Everlasting  Father.  My  friend,  send  your 
mediator  into  the  world.  Send  the  child  of  your 
bosom,  clad  in  humble  garments — charged  only  with  a 
mission  of  love  and  practical  good  will  to  men.  Let 
me  assure  you  that  you  can  only  bring  the  world  to 
love  you  and  learn  of  you  by  making  it  the  partaker 
of  your  life  through  some  expression  of  art  wliich  it 
can  appropriate,  l^o  matter  if  it  die.  It  shall  rise 
again,  and  when  it  rises,  rise  to  you,  drawing  all  men 
mito  it  and  unto  you. 


THE   TENTH   LETTER. 

fo  %tb.  |cre;malj  lottos,  §.§. ' 

CONCERNING   TEE  FAILURE  OF  HIS  PULPIT  MINISTRY. 

I  NEVER  should  have  undertaken  this  letter  to 
you,  had  I  not  been  requested  to  do  so  by  one  of 
your  professional  brethren.  It  is  not  a  pleasant  thing 
to  find  fault  with  people,  particularly  with  those  whose 
faults  are  the  results  of  natural  organization.  My  object 
in  finding  fault  at  any  time,  with  any  person,  is  reform ; 
and  you  can  never  reform.  You  cannot  make  yourself 
over  again,  into  something  difierent  and  better ;  and 
this  ink  of  mine  will  be  wasted,  unless  it  shall  address 
other  eyes  than  yours.  The  assurance  that  other  eyes 
will  be  interested  in  what  I  have  to  say  to  you  deter- 
mines me  to  write  this  letter. 

Surveying  the  American  pulpit,  I  find  it  occupied 
by  men  who  can  legitimately  be  divided  into  two  great 


To  Rev.  Jeremiah  Jones,  D.  D.         143 


_s. 


classes,  and  these,  for  the  present  purpose,  I  will  call 
the  poetical  and  the  iinpoetical.  I  am  not  sure  that 
these  designations  are  sufficiently  definite,  or  even  suffi- 
ciently suggestive,  but  I  can  tell  you  what  I  mean  by 
them.  The  class  which  I  denominate  poetical  is  com- 
posed of  men  who  possess  imagination,  strong  and  ten- 
der sympathies,  profound  insight  into  human  character 
and  motive,  and  the  power  to  attract  to  themselves  the 
affections  of  those  around  them.  These  men  possess 
also  what  we  term  individuality  in  an  unusual  degree — 
a  quality  which  carries  with  it  the  power  to  transmute 
truth  into  life — to  resolve  systems  into  character — to 
appropriate,  digest,  and  assimilate  all  spiritual  food 
whatsoever,  so  that  when  they  preach  they  do  not 
preach  as  the  mouthpieces  of  a  school,  or  a  sect,  or  a 
system,  but  as  revelators  and  promulgators  of  a  life. 
These  are  the  preachers  who  touch  men,  because  they 
preach  out  of  their  own  life  and  experience.  These 
are  the  men  who  speak  from  the  heart  and  reach  the 
heart — the  men  who  possess  what,  for  lack  of  a  better 
name,  we  call  magnetism.  The  unpoetical  class  may 
roughly  be  defined  by  the  statement  that  they  are  the 
opposites  of  the  poetical.  They  have  no  imagination  ; 
they  are  not  men  of  strong  and  tender  sympathies ; 
they  do  not  possess  fine  insight  (though  some  of  them 
possess  a  degree  of  cunning  which  is  mistaken  for  it) ; 
they  have  not  the  power  to  attract  to  themselves  the 


144  Letters  to  the  Jonefes. 

affections  of  those  around  them ;  they  do  not  possess 
true  individuality  (though  they  may  have  pecuUarities  or 
idiosyncracies  which  pass  for  it) ;  and,  in  their  utter- 
ances, they  are  little  more  than  the  mouthpieces  of 
the  systems  and  schools  to  which  they  are  attached. 

To  the  latter  class  I  assign  you  without  the  slight- 
est hesitation,  because  natxn-e  has  placed  you  in  it.  I 
have  no  expectation  that  you  will  ever  be  different 
from  what  you  are.  It  is  possible  that  some  terrible 
affliction  or  some  great  humiliation  will  soften  your 
character,  and  develop  your  heart,  and  quicken  your 
sympathies,  but  I  could  hardly  pray  for  such  discipline 
as  would  be  necessary  to  revolutionize  your  constitu- 
tion. No  sir  ;  you  will  probably  live  and  die  the  same 
sort  of  a  man  you  always  have  been — useful  in  some 
respects,  self-complacent  in  all  respects— an  irreproach- 
able, unlovable,  sound,  solid,  dogmatic  doctor  of  di- 
vinity. 

I  give  you  credit  for  an  honest  Christian  character 
and  purpose,  but  I  should  be  false  to  my  convictions 
should  I  fail  to  tell  you  that  I  consider  you  aud  all  who 
are  like  you  to  be  out  of  place  in  the  Christian  puljiit. 
Your  religion  is  mostly  a  matter  of  intellect.  You  are 
fond  of  preaching  doctrine.  You  delight  in  what  you 
are  pleased  to  denominate  theology.  You  rejoice  in  a 
controversy.  You  speak  as  by  authority.  You  de- 
nounce sin,  as  if  you  had  never  sinned,  and  never  ex- 


To  Rev.  Jeremiah  Jones,  D.  D.         145 

pected  to  sin.  You  unfold  what  you  call  "  the  scheme 
of  salvation  "  as  if  it  were  a  grand  contrivance  of  the 
Supreme  Being  to  circumvent  Himself — a  marvellous 
invention  by  which  He  is  enabled  to  harmonize  His 
justice  with  His  pity.  You  have  a  "  system  of  truth  " 
to  promulgate,  and,  in  your  mind,  it  seems  essential 
that  this  system  should  be  accepted  in  all  its  parts  as 
the  condition  of  salvation.  You  are,  indeed,  the  spe- 
cial guardian  of  the  orthodoxy  of  your  region.  Alas ! 
for  the  poor  candidate  for  the  Christian  ministry  who 
may  be  obliged  to  pass  under  your  examination  !  Alas ! 
for  any  person  who  may  presume  to  decide  that  a  man 
can  be  a  Christian  without  embracing  your  "  system 
of  truth,"  or  that  religion  is  not  quite  as  much  a  mat- 
ter of  the  brains  as  of  the  heart !  You  lug  along  into 
this  present  age,  to  its  scandal  and  its  shame,  to  the 
detriment  and  disgrace  of  the  Christian  cause,  the  old 
Puritan  idea  that  assent  to  a  creed — that  belief  in  cer- 
tain dogmas — has  more  to  do  with  the  soundness  of  a 
man's  Christianity  than  an}i;hing  else.  You  do  not 
ask,  first  and  foremost,  in  your  inquiries  concerning  a 
man,  whether  his  life  is  pure — pious  toward  God  and 
loving  and  benevolent  toward  men — ^but  whether  he  is 
sound  in  his  "  views."  At  this  very  moment,  while 
you  are  reading  these  words,  you  are  wondering,  not 
whether  I  am  a  Christian  man,  loving  and  serving  God 

and  men,  but  whether  I  am  orthodox  or  heterodox  in 

1 


146  Letters  to  the  Jonefes. 


my  "  views  ;  "  and  becaiise  I  hold  your  frigid  scholas- 
ticism in  contempt,  you  regard  me  as  "  loose  "  in  my 
"  views,"  and,  on  the  whole,  dangerous  in  my  teach- 
ings. Tell  me,  doctor,  if  it  is  not  so  ?  Have  you  not 
been  troubled  more  with  doubts  about  my  orthodoxy, 
while  reading  this  paragraph,  than  anything  else  ? 

"Will  you  be  offended  if  I  reveal  to  you  the  nature 
of  your  Sabbath  ministrations,  and  endeavor  to  show 
you  why  you  cannot  hope  to  accomplish  very  much  for 
your  Master  ?  Your  manner  is  not  humble — your 
spirit  is  not  humble.  You  do  not  enter  your  church 
on  Sunday  morning  crushed  with  a  sense  of  your 
responsibility — feeling  the  need  of  aid  and  inspiration 
— tilled  Avith  tender  reverence  toward  God  and  love 
toward  man.  Your  utterances  are  those  of  a  self- 
sufficient  man.  Your  prayers  touch  nobody.  They 
are  full  of  sonorous  phrases  culled  from  the  sacred 
text ;  they  aboimd  in  passages  of  information  ad- 
dressed to  the  Deity  ;  they  embrace  all  the  objects  of 
Christian  solicitude  and  labor ;  they  range  the  earth 
through  all  the  degrees  of  latitude  and  longitude  for 
subjects  ;  the  sailor,  the  soldier,  the  heathen,  the  Jews, 
the  Roman  Catholics  and  all  other  errorists,  the  for- 
eign missionaries,  the  home  missionaries,  the  civil  au- 
thorities-r-all  these  come  in  by  catalogue.  These 
broad  generalities  of  petition,  which  do  not  grow,  as 
you  very  well  know,  out  of  any  immediate  impulse 


To  Rev.  Jeremiah  Jones,  D.  D.         147 

of  desire,  but  only  out  of  a  general  impression  of  de- 
sirableness, have  not  the  slightest  power  to  lead  a  con- 
gregation in  genuine  prayer.  The  thing  sounds  well. 
The  words  are  well  chosen  and  well  pronounced,  but 
they  do  not  lift  a  heart  to  its  Maker,  or  give  voice  to 
the  aspirations  of  a  single  soul. 

Your  sermon  is  like  your  prayer,  and  carries  with 
it  the  idea  that  you  are  safe,  and  comparatively  inde- 
pendent. It  is  as  if  you  were  to  stand  in  your  pulpit, 
and  say :  "  Here  am  I,  Rev.  Jeremiah  Jones,  D.  D., 
safe,  by  the  grace  of  God,  forever,  with  a  message  to 
deliver.  Repent  and  believe  what  I  believe,  and  you 
will  be  saved ;  refuse  to  repent  and  believe  what  I 
believe,  and  you  will  be  damned.  Take  things  in  my 
way,  see  things  as  I  see  them,  adopt  my  opinions  and 
my  system,  and  you  will  be  all  right.  If  you  do  not, 
then  you  will  be  all  wrong,  and  I  wash  my  hands  of 
all  responsibility  for  your  destruction."  Salvation 
would  seem,  in  your  scheme,  to  be  a  matter  of  ma- 
chinery. You  preach  just  what  you  were  taught  to 
preach  at  the  theological  seminary,  and  have  not  taken 
a  single  step  in  advance.  It  is  the  same  old  brain- 
stuff,  unsoftened  by  a  better  love,  unfertilized  by  a 
better  experience,  without  life  or  the  power  to  enrich 
life.  You  put  before  your  hearers  a  skeleton,  and 
hold  them  responsible  for  not  seeing  and  admitting 
that  it  is  a  beautiful  form  of  life.    You  give  them  a 


system  and  a  scheme,  when  they  need  a  life  and  a 
heart.  You  insist  on  driving  them  by  threats  to  Him 
who,  with  a  different  spirit  and  different  policy,  said 
"  Come  imto  me." 

Do  not  understand  me  to  blame  you  for  all  this,  for 
you  cannot  very  well  help  it.  I  only  state  the  matter 
in  detail,  to  prove  that  the  pulpit  is  not  the  place  for 
you.  You  are  honest  enough,  but  you  have  no  sensi- 
bility. You  have  mind  enough,  but  you  have  none  of 
that  poetic  or  spiritual  insight  which  enables  other 
men  to  seize  the  essence  of  that  scheme  of  truths  with 
whose  adjustment  into  form  and  system  you  so  con- 
stantly busy  yourself.  I  once  entered  the  study  of  a 
preacher  who  had  been  for  three  months  out  of  public 
employment,  and  who,  to  demonstrate  to  me  his  in- 
dustry, assured  me  that  he  had  written  during  that 
period  thirty-six  sermons.  Indeed,  he  showed  me  the 
pile.  Now  there  was  a  job  which  you  could  have  done 
just  as  well  as  he,  but  neither  you  nor  he,  nor  any 
other  man  who  could  do  it,  is  fit  to  write  a  sermon  at 
all.  Moved  by  no  special  want  of  the  souls  aroxmd 
him,  taking  no  suggestions  from  the  living  time,  he 
wrote  sermons — very  sound  sermons,  doubtless — ^but 
sermons  with  no  more  power  in  them  to  move  men 
than  there  is  in  a  mathematical  proposition.  You  seem 
to  feel  that  the  truth  is  the  truth,  and  that  if  you 
promulgate  it  with  an  honest  purpose,  it  is  all  that  is 


To  Rev.  Jeremiah  Jones,  D.  D.         149 

necessary.  Men  occasionally  find  their  way  into  your 
pulpit,  however,  to  whom  your  congi-egation  give  their 
hearts  before  they  have  uttered  ten  sentences,  and 
why  ?  The  heart  instinctively  acknowledges  the  cre- 
dentials of  its  teacher.  Therer  is  something  about  some 
men,  in  the  pulpit,  which  draws  my  heart  to  them  at 
once.  I  know  by  their  beariog,  by  the  sound  of  their 
voices,  by  every  emanation  of  their  personality,  that 
their  hearts  are  on  a  sympathetic  level  with  all  hu- 
manity— that  they  are  bowing  tearfully  under  their 
own  bui'den  while  they  help  to  bear  mine — that  they 
are  my  fellows  in  temptation,  in  struggle,  in  aspira- 
tion. 

This  poetic  instinct — this  power  to  reach  through 
words  and  phrases,  and  forms  and  types  and  figures, 
and  to  grasp  the  naked  truths  of  which  they  are  only 
the  representatives — is  essential  to  any  man  who  feeds 
the  people.  You  are  fond  of  creeds  and  catechisms ; 
and  those  who  listen  to  you  are  instructed  in  creeds 
and  catechisms  ;  but  you  might  just  as  hopefully  under- 
take to  make  a  living  tree  out  of  dry  chips,  as  a 
living  Christian  out  of  creeds  and  catechisms.  This 
poetic  instinct  or  power  is  the  solvent  of  creeds  and 
catechisms — the  gastric  juice  that  softens  them  into 
chyle,  and  the  absorbents  that  suck  from  them  their 
vital  fluid  for  the  soul's  nourishment.  But  why  do  I 
talk  to  you  about  this  poetic  faculty  ?      You  do  not 


150  Letters  to  the  Jonefes. 

understand  me.  You  do  not  comprehend  me  at  all. 
You  think  that  I  am  foggy  and  fanciful — transcenden- 
tal and  nonsensical ;  but  it  is  you — stolid  pretender  to 
solidity  and  sound  sense — who  are  foggy  and  fanciful. 
You  think  and  call  yourself  a  matter-of-fact  man,  when 
you  are  only  a  matter-of-form  man.  The  poet  .is  the 
man  who  touches  facts.  The  poet  is  the  man  of  com- 
mon sense,  who  finds  and  reveals  the  inner  life  and 
meaning  of  things  ?  The  true  poet  in  a  free  pulpit  is 
a  man  in  his  place,  and  no  other  man  is  fit  for  the 
place.  When  the  true  poet  speaks  from  the  pulpit,  the 
people  hear  ;  and  they  will  hear  gladly  no  other  man. 
He  is  the  only  man  who  can  reveal  a  congregation  to 
itself.  The  great  charm  of  The  Great  Teacher  to  the 
woman  at  the  well  was  His  power  to  tell  her  all  the 
things  that  ever  she  did,  and  that  was  her  sole  recom- 
mendation of  Him  to  those  of  her  friends  whom  she 
invited  into  His  presence. 

There  are  not  so  many  preachers  of  your  class  in 
the  world  now  as  there  were  once,  thank  God !  It  was 
this  brain  Christianity — this  intellectualism — this  scho- 
lasticism— that  gave  root  to  those  great  controversies 
and  schisms  which  disgraced  Christianity,  alike  in  the 
judgment  of  history  and  the  eyes  of  a  faithless  world. 
Pride  of  theological  opinion,  sectarian  partisanship, 
strifes  of  words,  splittings  of  hairs,  formalisms, — these 
have  been  the  curse  of  Christianity  and  the  clog  upon 


To  Rev.  Jeremiah  Jones,  D.  D.         151 


its  progress  in  all  ages.  You  and  those  who  are  like 
you  have  made  a  complicated  and  difficult  thing  of  that 
which  is  exquisitely  simple.  You  have  surrounded  that 
fountain  which  flows  with  a  volume  of  sparkling  bounty 
for  the  cleansing  and  the  healing  of  all  hmnanity, 
with  hedges  of  words  and  forms,  and  conditions  and 
prejudices  ;  yet  you  are  too  blind  to  see  it.  But  I  see 
your  class  fading  out,  and  another  and  a  better  coming 
in,  and  I  mark  with  gratitude  the  change  in  the  general 
aspect  of  the  Christian  enterprise.  The  difterences 
between  sects  are  growing  small  by  degi'ees  and  beau- 
tifully less.  Brother  grasps  the  hand  of  brother  across 
the  chasms  which  the  fathers  made.  Xames  do  not 
separate  as  they  once  did  those  whom  the  common  re- 
ception of  the  vital  truths  of  Christianity  has  made  one. 
Love  unites  those  whom  logic  and  learning  have  long 
dinded.  And  you,  sir,  with  your  dry  doctrinal  dis- 
courses, your  array  of  redemptive  machinery,  your  de- 
nunciations and  threatenings,  your  fulminations  against 
opposing  sects,  your  pride  of  opinion  and  your  hard 
and  unpoetic  nature,  are  out  of  place  in  a  pulpit  that  is 
already  far  in  advance  of  you. 

I  I'ecently  addressed  a  letter  to  an  intelligent  rela- 
tive of  yours  concerning  his  habit  of  staying  away  from 
the  church  on  the  Sabbath.  I  foimd  serious  fault  with 
him  for  his  delinquencies  in  this  respect.  I  undertook 
to  present  to  him  sufficient  reasons  for  reform,  and 


152  Letters  to  the  Jonefes. 

prominently  among  those  reasons  I  stated  that  he 
needed  the  intellectual  stimulus  which,  in  his  circum- 
stances, he  would  only  secure  by  attendance  on  the 
ministrations  of  the  pulpit.  I  do  not  retract  what  I 
said  to  him  at  all.  I  should  advise  him  to  hear  you 
preach,  rather  than  to  hear  nobody,  spending  his  Sab- 
baths in  idleness  ;  yet  I  cannot  hide  from  you  the  fact 
that  you  and  those  who  are  like  you  are  responsible  to 
a  great  extent  for  the  thinly  attended  Christian  meet- 
ings of  the  Sabbath.  I  cannot  help  feeling  that  those 
preachers  who  find  themselves  without  power  to  draw 
men  to  them  by  the  beauty  of  their  lives  and  charac- 
ters, and  by  the  adaptedness  of  their  teachings  to  the 
popular  want,  and  by  that  magnetism  of  poetic  or 
spiritual  sympathy  which  is  the  heavenly  baptism,  are 
doing  more  than  they  imagine  to  depopulate  the 
churches.  I  confess  to  no  small  degree  of  sympathy 
with  those  who  prefer  staying  at  home  to  hearing  you 
preach ;  for  though  I  am  sometimes  stirred  intellectually 
by  you,  I  am  never  moved  religiously  and  spiritually. 

Look  at  the  churches  with  me  for  a  moment,  my 
reverend  friend,  and  mark  what  you  see.  Here  is  a 
church  with  a  man  in  the  pulpit  of  great  intellectual 
gifts  and  excellent  scholarship.  His  sermons  are 
models  of  English  composition.  He  is  known  in  all 
the  churches  as  a  sound  man.  Look  over  his  congre- 
gation :  two,  three,  four,  in  a  pew — old  men,  steady 


To  Rev.  Jeremiah  Jones,  D.  D.         153 


men,  pious  women — some  asleeji — all  decorous.     You 
will  see  the  same  sight  fifty-two  Simdays  of  the  year. 
The  teaching  is  good  enough,  but  there  is  no  motion. 
The  instruction  is  sound,  but  there  is  no  imj^ulse.    How 
many  respectable,  sleepy,  sound  preachers  and  churches 
do  you  suppose  there  are  in  this  country  which  show 
no  change  from  Sabbath  to  Sabbath  and  from  year  to 
year,  and  which  make  no  aggressive  inroads  upon  the 
worldly  Hfe   which   environs  them  ?      Well,  here  is 
another  church,  whose  preacher  never  was  celebrated 
for  the  soundness  of  his  "  views  " — who,  indeed,  never 
paid  very  much  attention  to  his  "  views ; "  but  who  tried 
to  do  something — tried  to  introduce  a  new  life  into  his 
church  and  into  the  community  in  which  he  lived. 
What  is  there  about  this  man  that  draAVS  the  crowd 
to  him  ?     He  is  not  so  intellectual  as  his  neighbor ;  he 
is  not  so  good  a  scholar  as  his  neighbor;  he  cannot 
write  so  fine  a  sermon  as  his  neighbor,  but  he  draws  a 
church  full  of  people.     The  young  flock  to  him ;  his 
Sunday  school  is  the  largest  to  be  found  for  many 
miles  around  him,  and  his  church  is  recognized  as  a 
thing  of  power  and  progress.    This  man  has  reached 
the  hearts  of  his  people,  through  the  sympathies  of  his 
poetic  nature.     He  has  touched  them  where  they  live 
— not  where  they  think.    He  has  melted  them,  moulded 
them,  moved  them.     I  tell  you,  sir,  that  thin  churches 
are  very  much  attributable  to  thin  ministers — not  thin 


154  Letters  to  the  Jonefes. 


in  brains,  or  scholarship,  but  thin  in  heart  and  thin  in 
human  sympathy  and  thin  in  spirituality — thin  where 
they  should  be  thickest. 

You,  Dr.  Jones,  and  your  brethren  of  the  pulpit, 
very  rarely  get  honestly  talked  to  from  the  pews,  but 
you  could  leam  a  great  deal  more  from  them  than  you 
imagine,  if  they  would  talk  to  you  honestly.  You  rarely 
hear  the  truth.  Your  friends  praise  you,  and  your  ene- 
mies shim  you.  Let  me  say  to  you  this  :  that  when  you 
preach  you  preach  with  such  an  air  of  authority,  and 
such  an  assumption  of  superiority,  and  such  an  ap- 
parent lack  of  sympathy  with  my  weaknesses  and 
trials,  that  I  find  myself  rising  in  opposition  to  you. 
I  think  that  all  those  hearts  which  have  not  schooled 
themselves  to  accept  your  teachings  as  they  are  ren- 
dered, are  afiected  as  mine  is.  Do  not  deceive  your- 
self with  the  thought  that  these  feelings  are  the  off- 
spring of  depravity,  for  they  are  no  such  thing.  They 
are  the  spirit's  protest  against  your  right  to  teach. 
Very  differently  do  many  other  men  affect  me.  Ah ! 
well  do  I  remember  one,  sleeping  now  within  a  few  rods 
of  where  I  write,  and  waking  uncounted  miles  away 
beyond  the  blue  ether  that  draws  the  veil  between  my 
eyes  and  heaven,  who  took  my  heart  in  his  hand  when- 
ever it  pleased  him.  He  had  an  intellect  as  bright  and 
keen  and  strong  as  yours,  but  his  power  was  not  in 
that.    He  preached  mere  a  sermon  that  a  tasteful 


To  Rev.  Jeremiah  Jones,  D.  D.         155 

scholar  would  call  brilliant,  but  his  power  was  not  in 
the  brilliancy  of  his  sermons.  His  power  was  in  his 
sanctified,  spiritualized  humanity,  that  never  blamed 
but  always  pitied  me,  that  took  me  in  its  charitable 
arnfs  and  blessed  me,  that  held  my  hand  and  gave  me 
loving  felloAVship,  that  unselfishly  poured  out  its  life 
that  the  life  of  all  humanity  might  be  raised  to  a  higher 
level.  You  are  too  great  in  your  own  estimation.  Yon 
are  too  much  impressed  with  your  own  dignity.  He 
was  Humility's  personification,  and  carried  a  sense  of  his 
unworthiness  as  a  constant  burden.  Ah !  my  friend, 
have  you  not  learned  that  the  weak  do  not  commit 
their  burdens  to  the  strong  ?  Learn  of  your  children, 
then,  who  seek  for  refuge  in  their  mother's  slender 
arms  and  not  in  yours. 

I  told  you  at  the  outset  that  I  had  no  expectation 
of  reforming  you,  because  it  is  not  in  you  to  be  re- 
formed. You  lack  the  insight  to  apprehend  spiritual 
things ;  you  are  harsh ;  you  are  coarse ;  you  dwell  in 
forms  and  phrases  ;  you  are  constitutionally  imperious  ; 
you  are  not  sympathetic ;  you  are  not  tempted  as  other 
men  are.  This  lack  of  sympathy  in  your  nature  has  cut 
you  off  from  participation  in  the  severest  trials  and 
struggles  that  ever  visit  the  Christian  soul.  You  cannot 
have  charity  for  others.  But  thei*e  are  some  who  will 
read  this  letter  and  gather  perhaps  a  valuable  hint  from 
it.     It  will  not  have  been  written  in  vain  if  one 


156  Letters  to  the  Joneles. 

preacher  leai*ns  that  his  power  and  usefulness  in  the 
pulpit  do  not  reside  either  in  the  orthodoxy  or  the 
heterodoxy  of  his  "  views,"  do  not  reside  in  any  system 
of  theology  or  in  any  intellectual  power,  but  do  reside 
in  a  spiritual  life,  which,  acting  through  its  sympathies, 
by  apprehension  of  and  application  to  human  need, 
nourishes,  elevates  and  spiritualizes  human  character. 


THE   ELEYEN"TH    LETTER. 

CONCERNING  TEE  BEST  WA  T  OF  SPENDING  EIS  HONBT. 

THE  art  least  understood  in  this  country,  where 
money  is  made  easily  and  quickly,  is  that  of 
spending  it  wisely  and  well.  Most  men  think  that  if 
they  could  make  money  they  would  run  the  risk  of 
spending  it  properly ;  and  these  same  men  criticise 
their  fortimate  neighbors  ;  yet  it  is  doubtless  true  that 
the  poor  do  not  monopolize  the  wisdom  of  the  world, 
and  that  if  they  were  to  change  places  with  the  rich 
money  would  be  no  better  spent  than  it  is  now.  There 
are  enough  poor  men  who  succeed,  from  time  to  time, 
in  getting  rich,  to  show  that  wealth  rarely  brings  with 
it  the  wisdom  which  will  dispense  it  with  comfort  and 
credit  to  its  possessor  and  with  genuine  benefit  to  the 
world.    Of  how  few  men  of  wealth  can  it  be  said  that 


158  Letters  to  the  Jonefes. 


they  spend  their  money  well!  One  is  niggardly, 
another  is  lavish ;  one  runs  into  sports  and  debauch- 
eries, another  into  extravagance  in  equipage  ;  one  apes 
the  fashionable,  or  does  what  he  can  to  buy  social 
position,  another  separates  himself  from  others  by 
using  his  money  to  thrust  his  personal  eccentricities 
before  the  public ;  one  expends  thousands  in  ostenta- 
tious charities,  and  there  is  occasionally  one  who  im- 
poverishes himself  and  his  family  by  his  improvident 
beneficence.  Caprice  and  impulse  seem  to  govern  the 
spending  of  money  more  than  principle,  with  the  large 
majority  of  those  who  have  money  to  spend. 

It  is  a  good  sign  for  a  man  who  has  made  money  to 
take  to  spending  it  in  any  way  that  is  not  vicious.  It 
usually  shows  that  he  is  getting  over  the  excitement 
of  pursuit — that  the  pleasures  of  seeking  wealth  are 
beginning  to  pall,  and  that  his  heart  is  looking  for  a 
fresh  delight.  It  seems  to  me  to  be  a  good  sign,  I  say, 
for  a  man  to  reach  this  point,  for  it  proves  that  he  is 
not  a  miser.  When  a  man  can  content  himself  with 
a  never-ending  search  for  wealth,  or  rather,  when  a 
rich  man  can  be  content  "with  the  pleasure  of  adding  to 
wealth  which  he  can  never  use,  and  which  will  be 
most  likely  to  damage  his  children,  it  is  evident  that  he 
possesses  a  very  sordid  nature,  or  that  his  character 
has  been  made  sordid  by  his  absorbing  pursuit  of  gain. 
To  begin  to  dispense  with  one  hand  what  the  other 


To  Stephen  Girard  Jones.  159 

has  gained,  and  still  may  be  gaining,  is  to  assume  a 
healthy  attitude.  A  man  who  does  this  is  not  spoil- 
ing. 

It  happens  in  this  country,  where  estates  are  not 
entailed,  that  there  are  but  a  few  families  which,  for 
any  considerable  number  of  generations,  remain  rich. 
Wealth,  when  left  to  voluntary  management,  is  almost 
imiformly  dissipated  in  two  or  three  generations,  so 
that  the  great-grandchild  nearly  always  is  obliged  to 
begin  just  where  the  great-grandfather  did.  Oftener 
than  otherwise,  the  reach  of  a  fortune  is  briefer  than 
this.  It  is  thus  that  men  are  not  bred  to  the  manage- 
ment and  the  expenditure  of  wealth.  Our  rich  men  are 
men  who  have  made  their  money — men  who  have  spent 
their  youth  in  learning  how  to  make  it,  and  spent  the 
strength  of  their  years  in  making  it.  On  becoming 
rich,  they  find  that  there  is  one  part  of  their  education 
which  has  been  neglected,  viz. :  that  which  relates  to 
the  best  methods  of  spending  money.  Tliey  ai'e  not 
misers  ;  they  are  not  sordid  men  ;  they  would  gladly 
do  something  which  shall  prove  to  the  world  that  they 
are  not  altogether  ungrateful  for  the  handsome  way  in 
which  it  has  treated  them.  Moreover,  there  is  a  call 
within  them  for  repayment  in  comfort  or  some  form 
of  satisfaction  for  the  toU  and  care  which  it  has  cost 
them  to  win  wealth.  Many  a  man  on  reaching  wealth 
has  found  himself  confronted  by  the  great  problem  of 


160  Letters  to  the  Jonefes. 

his  life,  and  many  a  man,  imable  to  solve  it,  has  given 
up  the  thought  of  spending,  and  gone  back  to  money- 
getting  to  seek  his  sole  satisfaction  in  the  excitement 
of  the  pursuit.  Not  imfrequently  the  process  of  getting 
money  has  been  so  absorbing,  and  has  so  shut  out  of 
the  mind  all  culture  and  all  generous  pleasure,  that  the 
spending  of  money  can  fulfil  no  "want. 

I  have  said  thus  much  generally  on  this  subject,  my 
friend,  that  you  may  attach  sufficient  importance  to 
what  I  have  to  say  to  you.     You  have  been  fortimate 
in  business.     Your  enterprise  and  industry  have  been 
abundantly  rewarded.     All  your  adventures  have  been 
prospered,  and  you  are  to-day  the  richest  of  all  the 
Joneses.    What  are  you  going  to  do  wath  your  money  ? 
You  have  arrived  at  the  point  when  this  inquiry  has,  I 
am  sure,  profound  interest  for  you.     You  are  not  a 
man  who  can  be  content  with  the  life-long  task  of  ac- 
quisition.     You  wish  to  give  an  expression  to  your 
wealth,  for  your  personal  satisfaction,  and  for  the  pur- 
pose of  adding  privileges  to  the  lot  of  those  whom  you 
love. 

In  laying  out  your  plans  for  spending  money,  the 
first  consideration  is  safety  for  yourself  and  your 
family.  Any  plan  which  contemplates  idleness  or  dissi- 
pation for  yourself  or  your  children,  is  illegitimate, 
and  Tv^ll  prove  to  be  ruinous.  I  am  not  afraid  that  you 
will  ever  become  idle,  or,  even,  that  you  will  become 


To  Stephen  Girard  Jones.  161 

devoted  to  any  form  of  vicious  indulgence.  Your 
habits  of  industry  and  sobriety  are  well  formed,  and  I 
do  not  think  that  you  are  in  any  personal  danger.  The 
danger  relates  entirely  to  your  family.  You  had  a 
hard  time  when  you  were  a  boy,  and  through  all  your 
early  manhood  woi'kcd  severely.  You  have  frequently 
said  to  your  friends  that  you  did  not  intend  that  your 
children  should  be  subjected  to  as  much  hardship  as 
you  had  been.  There  is  danger  that  your  parental 
tenderness  will  injure  these  children.  Permit  me  to 
ask  what  harm  those  early  hardships  of  yours  inflicted 
upon  you  ?  Was  it  not  by  the  means  of  these  hard- 
ships that  you  learned  to  achieve  your  successes  ? 
Then  why  do  you  so  tenderly  deprecate  hardships  for 
your  children  ?  Let  me  warn  you  that  through  this 
tenderness  for  your  children  your  wealth  Biay  become 
— ^nay,   is  quite  likely  to  become — a  curse  to  them. 

This  notion  that  wealth  brings  immunity  from  in- 
dustry is  the  ruin  of  thousands  every  year.  I  do  not 
intend  to  convey  the  idea  that  your  children  shall  all 
work  in  the  same  way  that  you  have  done,  bixt  that 
neither  girl  nor  boy  of  yours  shall  ever  receive  the  im- 
pression that  she  or  he  can  live  reputably  or  happily 
without  the  systematic  and  useful  employment  of  their 
minds,  or  their  hands,  or  both.  Give  them  all  a  better 
education  than  you  had,  and  subject  them  to  the  same 
rigid  rule*  of  labor  and  discipline  which  are  applied  to 


162  Letters  to  the  Jonefes. 

their  jioorer  classmates.  Above  all  things  teach  them 
that  they  must  rely  upon  themselves  for  their  position 
in  the  world,  and  that  all  children  are  mean-spirited 
and  contemptible  who  base  their  respectability  on  the 
wealth  of  their  father.  Give  all  your  boys  a  business, 
and  assist  them  in  it  sparingly,  and  with  great  dis- 
crimination. Let  no  son  of  yours  "  lie  down  "  on  you, 
but  make  all  the  help  you  give  them  depend  upon  their 
personal  worthiness  to  receive  it.  Money  won  without 
effort  is  little  prized,  and  you  may  be  sure  that  you 
will  get  few  thanks  from  your  children  for  releasing 
them  from  the  necessity  of  industry.  Nobody  knows 
better  than  you  how  necessary  industry  is  to  the  com- 
fort and  pleasure  of  living,  and  it  should  be  your 
special  care,  in  all  your  schemes  for  spending  money 
upon  your  family,  that  these  schemes  should  involve 
family  employment  or  improvement.  Better  a  thousand 
tunes  throw  your  money  into  the  river,  than  permit  it 
to  spoil  your  cliildren. 

There  is  danger  also  to  the  community  in  which 
you  live,  and  to  the  himible  men  by  whom  you  are 
surrounded,  in  indiscreet  benefactions.  You  are  im- 
pulsive ;  your  money  now  comes  to  you  easily  ;  and  it 
is  not  hard  for  you  to  toss  a  gratuity  to  those  wl>om 
you  know  will  be  glad  to  receive  it.  Universal  obser- 
vation proves  that  money  which  does  not  cost  any- 
tliing  is  rarely  well  spent.     Men  will  thank, you  pro- 


To  Stephen  Girard  Jones.  163 

fusely  for  the  dollar  Avhich  you  give  them  for  some 
insignificant  service,  but  that  dollar  is  pretty  certain  to 
be  spent  upon  their  vices,  and  to  help  to  make  them 
beggars  and  flunkies.  You,  doubtless,  find  yourself 
surrounded  by  men  Avho  would  "  sponge  "  you  gladly 
— wlio  think  and  say  that  you  could  give  them  any 
amount  of  money  "  and  never  feel  it."  It  is  possible 
that  there  are  a  few  mean-spirited  Joneses  who  are 
already  wondering  whether  you  intend  to  leave  them 
any  money,  or  who  have  already  asked  you  for  "  assist- 
ance." Never  dismiss  an  application  for  help  without 
examination ;  but  be  careful  how  you  give  money  to 
those  who  are  able  to  earn  it.  Never  think  it  a  dis- 
grace to  be  thought  mean  and  niggardly  by  those  who 
Avish  to  get  your  money,  without  rendering  an  equiva- 
lent for  it. 

It  is  not  necessary  for  me  to  tell  you  that  no  sub- 
scription paper  ever  starts  within  five  miles  of  you  that 
does  not  come  to  you  before  it  completes  its  round. 
Now  do  not  get  sick  of  the  sight  of  these  petitions. 
The  offices  of  charity  are  never  complete,  and  public 
spirit  will  always  find  work  to  do  in  fresh  measures  of 
improvement.  It  is  right  that  you,  who  have  been  so 
abundantly  prospered,  should  be  abundantly  charitable. 
It  is  right  that  you,  who  have  so  large  a  stake  in  public 
order  and  general  prosperity,  should  minister  gen- 
erously to  public  improvement.     The  real  danger  with 


164  Letters  to  the  Jonefes. 

you,  is,  that  you  will  give  in  such  a  way  as  to  relieve 
others  of  the  burden  of  duty  which  they  should  carry. 
Tliis,  I  confess,  is  not  the  common  weakness  of  i*ich 
men,  but  it  would  be  their  common  error  if  the  com- 
munity were  to  have  its  will.  There  is  a  contemptible 
spirit  pervading  the  social  body  which  would  gladly 
shirk  the  cost  of  supporting  public  charities  and  pub- 
lic institutions  and  public  improvements  and  throw  it 
upon  rich  men.  You  are  the  member  of  a  church  ;  and 
I  am  ashamed  to  say  that  there  is  quite  a  general  feel- 
ing among  the  members  that  you  could  pay  the  entire 
expenses  "  without  feeling  it."  I  suppose  you  might 
do  this  without  suffering  very  much  pecuniary  incon- 
venience from  it ;  but  if  you  were  to  do  it,  it  would 
damage  not  only  the  church  but  you.  The  jealousy  of 
the  very  men  who  would  gladly  shirk  expenses  that 
they  would  load  upon  your  shovdders,  would  destroy 
the  hai-mony  of  the  church  and  drive  you  from  it.  It 
will  sometimes  fall  to  your  lot  to  pay  that  which  nig- 
gardly souls  refuse  to  pay,  after  the  willing  ones  have 
exhausted  their  ability.  Stand  squarely  up  to  this 
work,  like  the  noble  man  you  are.  Never  let  it  be  seen 
by  the  community  that  you  have  any  desire  to  avoid  ex- 
penditures which  it  belongs  to  you  to  make.  Do  your 
part  scrupulously.  Let  every  man  see  and  feel  that 
while  you  will  not  relieve  others  of  burdens  which 
belong  to  them,  you  are  determined  to  carry  all  which 


To  Stephen  Girard  Jones.  165 

belong  to  you,  to  the  last  ounce.  Let  society  ftel  that 
it  can  rely  upon  you  at  all  times  for  that  measure  of 
help  which  it  belongs  to  you  to  render. 

I  am  aware  that  I  have  told  you  but  little  as  yet  as 
to  the  proper  way  of  spending  money,  but  I  have  nar- 
rowed the  field  of  inquiry.     I  have  told  you  never  to 
spend  it  in  such  a  way  as  to  destroy  the  industrious 
habits  of  your  family  or  to  feed  the  vices  of  the  poor 
men  around  you,  or  to  foster  a  mendicant  spirit  among 
your  relatives,  or  to  relieve  general  society  from  the 
burdens  Avhich  should  be  equitably  distributed  among 
its  constituents.     And  now,  let  me  go  further  and  say 
that  all  ostentation  is  vulgar.     It  is  quite  the  habit  of 
men  who  become  rich  to  show  off  their  wealth  by 
building  large  and  costly  houses,  and  furnishing  them 
at  great  expense,  and  displaying  luxurious    equipage. 
The  men  who  do  this  are  very  rarely  those  who  have 
lived  in  fine  hoiises,  or  had  practical  acquaintance  with 
luxurious  domestic  appointments  ;  but  this  seems  to  be 
the  only  Avay  in  which  they  can  give  expression  to 
their   wealth.      It   is,    I   admit,   better   than   nothing. 
Streets  and  biiilding  sites  are  improved  by  it ;  uphol- 
sterers are  benefited  by  it ;  various  tradesmen  are  en- 
riched by  it ;  but,  after  all,  ostentation  is  vulgar,  and, 
moreover,  it  is  not  to  your  liking  at  all.     I  know  you 
would  not  enjoy  a  splendid  house  ;  but  you  would  en- 
joy a  better  one  than  you  are  in  now — therefore,  build 


166  Letters  to  the  Jonefes. 


it.  You  have  good  common  sense  and  very  little  taste ; 
therefore  with  only  general  directions,  pass  this  busi- 
ness into  the  hands  of  the  best  architect  your  money 
can  secure.  Buy  good  taste,  and  simply  insist  on  con- 
venience and  solidity.  Build  a  house  which  will  be  in 
good  taste  a  hundred  years  hence,  so  that  it  may  be 
delighted  in  by  your  children  and  your  grandchildren. 
It  may  seem  impertinent  to  tell  a  man  who  has  been 
shrewd  enough  to  make  money  that  he  is  not  shrewd 
enough  to  spend  it,  but  unless  you  have  good  advice, 
at  every  step  of  your  progress,  in  starting  an  establish- 
ment— that  is,  in  building  your  house,  furnishing  it, 
laying  out  your  grounds,  &c.,  &c., — you  will  be  sure 
to  excite  the  ridicule  of  your  friends,  and  bring  morti- 
fication to  yourself.  It  is  quite  the  habit  of  men  who 
have  made  money  to  grow  self-sufficient,  and  to  sup- 
pose that  because  they  have  succeeded  so  well  in  one 
department  of  effort,  they  are  equal  to  any.  A  prac- 
ticed eye  can  tell  these  men  always,  by  the  barren  spots 
and  the  uncultivated  and  unoccupied  spots  which  their 
management  betrays.  There  will  always  be  something 
to  show  that  the  establishment  belongs  to  the  man, 
and  that  the  man  does  not  belong  to  the  establishment 
— something  to  show  by  its  incompleteness  the  incom- 
pleteness of  the  owner's  education — a  libi-ary  without 
books,  a  palace  without  pictures,  a  garden  without 
flowers  or  fruits,  luxury  without  comfort,  or  some- 


To  Stephen  Girard  Jones.  167 

thing  of  the  sort.  You  can  have  such  a  place  as  this 
very  easily,  by  simply  taking  the  whole  matter  into 
your  own  hands,  and  assuming  that  you  know  all  that 
it  is  necessary  to  know  at  starting  ;  but  far  better  will 
it  be  for  you,  and  far  more  for  your  credit,  to  assume 
nothing — to  assume  that  you  know  nothing,  and  to 
look  upon  the  building  and  equipment  of  an  establish- 
ment as  a  course  of  education. 

I  can  imagine  nothing  more  delightful  or  more  use- 
ful in  family  life  than  the  two  or  three  years  of  study 
and  development  which  attend  the  proper  building  of 
a  house,  and  the  appointment  of  the  details  of  a  gene- 
rous establishment.  If  you  and  your  wife  and  your 
sons  and  your  daughters,  beginning  with  the  assump- 
tion that  you  know  nothing  of  the  subject,  devote 
yourselves  to  study  and  conversation  on  domestic  ar- 
chitecture, and  landscape  gardening,  and  furniture  and 
books  and  pictures,  seeking  for  information  and  sug- 
gestions from  every  source,  you  will  be  surprised  and 
delighted  to  find  in  the  end  that  you  have  entered  into 
a  new  life.  You  will  find  that  you  have  grown  quite 
as  rapidly  as  your  house  has  gro"\vn,  and  that  your 
grounds  and  gardens  have  been  developed  no  more 
than  your  mind.  You  will  learn,  in  short,  how  to 
spend  money  upon  yourself  and  yours,  in  a  "sray  which 
ministers  to  your  growth,  your  industry,  and  your  hap- 
piness.    You  are  the  pupils  of  the  artists  and  scholars 


168  Letters  to  the  Jonefes. 

and  artisans  whom  you  employ,  studj-ing  under  the  most 
favorable  circumstances ;  and  you  will  find  that  an 
education  thus  pleasantly  inaugurated  may  be  pursued 
for  life.  It  may  be  pursued  in  books,  in  society,  in 
travel. 

There  is  much  that  I  might  say  on  this  subject  of 
spending  money  as  it  relates  to  other  people,  in  differ- 
ent circimistances,  but  I  am  addressing  you — a  good 
type  of  "  our  successful  men,"  You  will  find  that  a 
costly  table  uill  give  you  the  gout,  and  your  children 
the  dyspepsia.  Therefore  live  plainly.  You  will  find 
that  luxurious  clothing  only  ministers  to  the  vanity  of 
your  children  ;  therefore  insist  that  it  shall  be  simply 
good  and  chaste  and  tasteful.  You  will  find  that  your 
personal  necessities  are  limited,  and  that,  unless  you 
permit  your  wealth  to  produce  a  brood  of  artificial 
wants,  you  can  neither  expend  your  money  upon  your 
children  nor  yourself.  Have  an  eye  to  those  around 
you.  The  greatest  kindness  you  can  show  to  the  poor 
is  to  give  them  employment,  and  to  pay  them  for  it 
well  and  promptly.  No  matter  if  you  do  not  really 
need  their  service.  If  they  need  your  money,  make  a 
service  for  them.  Above  all  things,  do  not  give  them 
money,  unless  calamity  overtake  them,  or  they  become 
unable  to  labor.  I  cannot  too  strongly  insist  that  in 
all  your  dealings  with  society,  with  the  poor,  and  Avith 
your  children,  you  shall  never  depreciate  in  their  minds 


To  Stephen  Girard  Jones.  169 

the  value  of  money.  Never  permit  yourself,  by  your 
way  of  spending  or  bestowing  money,  to  convey  tlie 
idea  that  money  has  cost  you  nothing ;  for  money  is 
sacred.  It  is  the  price  of  the  labor  of  mind  and  body, 
and  by  some  person,  at  some  time,  somewhere,  was  dug 
from  the  ground,  or  drawn  from  the  sea.  Because  you 
have  been  fortunate  in  accumulating  it,  you  have  no 
right  so  to  spend  it  as  to  convey  to  the  public  an  in- 
correct idea  of  its  cost  and  true  value. 

After  all,  I  imagine  that  you  will  find  it  very  diffi- 
cult to  spend  well  that  with  Avhich  Providence  has  fa- 
vored you,  in  your  home  life,  and  in  the  ordinary  char- 
ities which  appeal  to  you.  In  closing,  will  you  permit 
me  to  suggest  that  there  is  a  class  of  charities  and  a 
class  of  public  objects  which  make  special  appeal  to 
you.  The  great  majority  of  your  fellow-citizens — even 
those  who  possess  what  we  denominate  a  competence, 
— have  nothing  left  to  pay,  after  defraying  the  ex- 
penses of  their  individual  and  home  life,  sPnd  contrib- 
uting their  portion  to  the  support  of  society  and  the 
ordinary  charities.  For  a  great  hospital,  for  a  literary 
or  a  religious  institution,  for  a  public  library,  for  a 
public  gallery  of  art,  they  have  nothing.  These  thmgs 
exist  through  the  contributions  of  such  men  as  you,  or 
they  do  not  exist  at  all.  They  are  costly,  and  must  be 
bought  by  men  of  superabundant  wealth.  You  are  a 
rational  man,  my  friend,  and  know  that  already  you 


170 


Letters  to  the  Jonefes. 


have  more  wealth  than  you  and  your  family  can  ad- 
vantageously spend.  You  know,  also,  that  it  is  always 
best  for  a  man  to  be  his  own  executor.  If  you  pro- 
pose to  do  anything  for  the  world,  do  it  now.  See  to 
the  expenditure  of  your  own  money,  and  reap  the  satis- 
faction of  seeing  your  generation  enjoying  the  fruit  of 
your  benefactions.  This  waiting  until  death  to  give 
away  useless  money  is  the  height  of  folly.  The  money 
is  yours  to  sjDend :  spend  it,  and  thus  multiply  the 
sources  of  your  satisfaction.  Do  not  wait  until  you 
are  dead  to  do  a  deed  from  which  you  have  the  right 
to  draw  pleasure.  Make  what  you  can  out  of  your 
life,  and  get  what  satisfaction  you  can  out  of  your 
money.  There  are  many  chances  that  it  will  be  wasted 
or  misapplied  if  you  leave  it  to  be  administered  after 
you  shall  have  passed  away. 


THE    TTVELFTII    LETTER. 

^a  Itocl  |oiTts, 

COKCERNIXG  HIS  OPJKIOy  THAT  HE  KXOWS  PRETTY  MUCH 

EVEIIYTHING. 

I  CANNOT  tell  whether  you  believe  you  know  as 
much  as  you  pretend  to  know,  or  whether  you 
assume  to  know  everything  as  a  matter  of  policy.  I 
am  simply  aware  that  there  is  no  subject  presented  to 
you  in  practical  science,  in  art,  in  philosophy,  in  mor- 
als, in  religion,  in  politics,  in  literature,  in  society, 
upon  which  you  do  not  assume  to  entertain  a  valuable 
opinion,  and  that  you  pretend  to  be  competent  to  direct 
every  affair,  and  guide  and  control  every  interest  with 
which  you  have  anything  to  do.  It  seems  to  be  a  mat- 
ter of  principle  with  you  to  follow  no  man's  lead,  and^ 
to  refuse  to  admit  for  a  moment  that  any  man's  lead 
except  your  own  can  be  woi-thy  of  following.  I  never 
knew  you  to  ask  advice  of  anybody.     It  has  always 


172  Letters  to  the  Jonefes. 

seemed  as  if  you  regard  sucli  a  measure  as  an  exhibi- 
tion of  weakness — one  which  would  compromise  y6ur 
position,  and  bring  you  to  personal  disgrace.  No : 
you  are  authority  on  all  subjects,  an  expert  in  all  arts, 
an  adept  in  all  affairs  ;  and  I  do  not  know  of  a  position 
for  whose  duties  you  would  admit  yourself  to  be  in- 
competent, from  that  of  a  milliner  to  that  of  a  minister. 
In  all  my  dealings  with  the  world  I  have  noticed 
that  the  wisest  men  make  the  smallest  pretensions. 
The  prominent  characteristic  of  all  really  great  men  is 
teachableness — readiness  to  learn  of  everybody,  respect 
for  the  opinions  of  others,  and  modesty  touching  their 
own  attainments.  Sir  Isaac  Newton  was  so  far  from 
being  a  vain  or  pretentious  man  that  he  had  the  hum- 
blest estimate  of  his  own  knowledge.  Baron  Hum- 
boldt was  as  simple  and  unpretending  as  a  child. 
There  are  men  among  the  living  in  this  country — the 
mention  of  whose  names  is  not  necessary  to  call  up 
their  faces — whose  exceeding  simplicity  is  only  equalled 
by  their  exceeding  wisdom.  My  friend,  a  pretentious 
man  is,  by  token  of  his  pretentiousness,  a  charlatan,  al- 
ways. A  man  needs  only  to  be  wise  to  have  learned 
that  no  man  in  the  world  monopolizes  its  wisdom,  and 
that  there  is  no  man  living  who  cannot  teach  him 
something.  Human  faculty  and  Imman  life  are  hardly 
sufficient  for  learning  one  thing  thoroughly.  Each 
man  pursues  his  specialty,  learning  something  of  it 


To  Noel  Jones.  173 

while  he  lives ;  and  though  he  may  gather  much  in 
general  touching  the  specialties  of  others,  he  gets  little 
knowledge  of  detail  out  of  his  own  walk. 

You  ought  to  have  seen  enough  of  the  world  to 
know  that  it  is  full  of  larger  men  than  you  are,  or  can 
ever  hope  to  be.  You  ought  to  know  enough  of  these 
men,  by  this  time,  to  understand  that  no  pretension  of 
yours  can  raise  you  to  their  altitude,  or  bring  you  into 
communion  With  them.  The  true  position  for  you,  and 
for  me,  and  for  everybody — wise  or  simple — is  that 
of  a  learaer.  Many  years  ago,  as  a  young  physician 
was  standing  by  the  bedside  of  a  sick  little  child  in 
the  dirty  hovel  of  one  who  was  very  poor,  ho  was 
asked  by  a  coarse-looking  Irish  Avoman  who  had  come 
in  to  do  a  neighborly  ofiice,  and  was  standing  at  the 
opposite  side  of  the  bed,  whether  he  thought  the  pa- 
tient that  lay  gasping  between  them  would  live.  He 
replied  that  he  did  not  think  he  could  Hve  until  the 
next  morning.  There  was  a  shrewd  twinkle  in  her 
black  eyes  and  a  positive  tone  in  her  voice  as  she  ex- 
pressed an  opposite  opinion,  and,  at  the  same  time, 
gave  her  reasons  for  it.  He  went  away,  and  thouglit 
about  it ;  and  the  more  he  thought  the  more  he  became 
convinced  that  this  ignorant  Irish  woman  had  been  a 
better  student  of  disease  than  he  had,  and  that  her 
observation  of  previous  cases  must  have  been  both  in- 
timate and  extensive.     He  gave  to  her  reasons  their 


174  Letters  to  the  Jonefes. 

scientific  significance,  and  before  he  reached  his  office 
he  had  become  prepared  to  meet  what  he  had  supposed 
to  be  a  dying  patient  a  convalescent  the  next  morning. 
He  did  find  the  patient  a  convalescent,  and  left  him,  at 
last,  with  a  valuable  addition  to  his  knowledge  of 
s}Tnptoms,  beyond  what  books  and  his  own  observa- 
tion had  ever  taught  him.  He  learned  a  second  lesson 
by  this  incident  quite  as  valuable  to  him,  personally,  as 
the  first.  It  was,  never  to  regard  as  valueless  the 
opinions  of  the  ignorant  when  they  were  based  on 
observation,  until  he  had  given  them  a  fair  and  thor- 
ough investigation. 

This  ignorant  woman  had  a  right  to  her  opinion. 
She  had  earned  it,  for  she  had  studied.  She  may  have 
knowTi  nothing  else  particularly  worth  knowing,  but 
this  golden  bit  of  wisdom  she  had  won,  and  the  pro- 
fessors and  teachers  of  medicine  everywhere  would 
have  honored  themselves  by  humbly  learning  it  of  her. 
Every  great  and  wise  brain  that  lives  bows  to  and 
honors  the  humblest  hand  that  brings  it  food  and  in- 
spiration ;  but  the  position  which  you  assume  is  an 
insult  to  all  the  humble  life — not  to  say  high  life — by 
which  you  are  surrounded.  There  are  one  or  two 
things — perhaps  half  a  dozen — which  you  know  better 
than  others.  Upon  these,  men  come  to  you  for  infor- 
mation ;  but  they  know  that  of  all  others  about  which 
you  pretend  to  know  so  much  you  really  know  nothing. 


To  Noel  Jones.  175 

Let  your  neighbors  estimate  you.  They  recognize  you 
as  their  superior  in  one  or  two  points,  only.  Be  tliank- 
ful  that  there  are  one  or  two  things  which  you  really 
know,  and  which  you  can  offer  in  exchange  for  the 
woi'ld  of  knowledge  which  the  multitudinous  life 
around  you  has  found  and  proved.  You  have  your 
specialties,  and  other  men  have  theirs  ;  and  they  know, 
and  you  ought  to  know  and  jDractically  to  acknowl- 
edge', that  every  man  you  meet  has  just  as  much  advan- 
tage over  you  as  you  have  over  him.  It  is  the  habit 
to  speak  sneeringly  of  the  poverty  of  human  knowl- 
edge, but  human  knowledge  is  not  poor  in  the  aggre- 
gate. It  is  the  individual  man  that  knows  bo  little ; 
mankind  knows  much.  Every  secret  of  the  earth  and 
the  air  and  every  treasure  of  human  experience  is  in 
some  man's  keeping.  If  every  man  could  bring  to  a 
common  depository  his  special  discovery,  and  the  re- 
sults of  his  particular  thinking  and  working,  and  there 
were  a  mind  large  enough  to  comprehend  and  syste- 
matize the  mass,  with  a  life  sufBciently  long  for  the 
enterprise,  it  would  be  found  that  human  knowledge  is 
as  great  as  humanity  ifSelf.  Those  little  books  of  wis- 
dom contained  in  the  minds  of  your  humble  neighbors, 
my  friend,  are  open  to  you,  and  you  owe  it  to  yourself 
and  them  to  read  them  with  reverence. 

I  have  said  that  the  prominent  characteristic  of  all 
really  great  and  wise  men  is  teachableness.    I  may  add 


176  Letters  to  the  Jonefes. 

to  this  that  "without  teachableness  there  can  be  no  true 
greatness,  for  greatness  consists,  not  in  great  powers 
alone,  and  not  in  genius  alone,  but  in  the  power  to 
ap2)ropriate,  and  in  the  deed  of  appropriating,  the  wis- 
dom made  ready  for  it  by  other  minds.  For  a  great 
man,  a  thousand  minds  are  thinking,  a  thousand  hands 
are  working,  a  thousand  lives  are  living ;  and  the 
results  of  all  this  thinking  and  working  and  living 
come  to  him  and  pass  into  his  life,  contributing  to  his 
growth  and  feeding  his  power.  The  canal  that  crosses 
an  empire,  and  feeds  the  roots  of  a  score  of  springing 
cities,  and  gives  passage  to  the  bread  of  a  continent, 
and  swells  the  revenues  of  a  state,  has  its  unseen  and 
unacknowledged  feeders,  that  collect  its  waters  among 
the  mountains,  and  pour  them  into  its  trailing  volume, 
and  keep  it  always  full.  A  great  man  lays  every  mind 
with  which  he  comes  into  contact  mider  tribute.  Great 
listeners  are  such  men — absorbent  of  every  drop  of 
common  sense  and  even  the  faintest  spray  of  human 
experience.  Unerring  ears  have  they,  to  distinguish 
between  the  true  and  the  false  in  the  coins  that  are 
tossed  upon  their  counter.  Finding  a  man  who  has 
successfully  pursued  some  specialty  in  knowledge  or 
art,  they  suck  his  mind  as  they  would  suck  an  orange, 
throwing  away  cells  and  seeds,  and  drinking  the  juice 
for  nutriment  and  refreshment.  Do  you  not  see,  my 
friend,  that  it  is  not  the  policy  of  such  men  as  these  to 


To  Noel  Jones.  177 

be  pretentious  ?     They  could  not  afford  it,  even  were 
they  disposed  to  be. 

The  man  who  takes  your  position  must  necessarily 
go  through  life  at  a  disadvantage.  Your  policy  di'ives 
men  from  you.  Pretentiousness  is  always  and  every- 
where an  insult  to  society.  You  repel  the  knowledge 
that  naturally  flows  to  one  who  pretends  to  nothing. 
Nobody  goes  to  you  with  a  suggestion,  because  your 
attitude  repels  suggestions.  You  assume  to  possess  all 
the  knowledge  that  you  need.  All  that  you  learn  out- 
side of  the  specialty  which  absorbs  the  most  of  your 
active  power,  you  are  obliged  to  learn  by  book,  or  by 
some  trick  of  indirection.  You  think  that  you  can 
only  appear  to  be  wise  by  assimiing  to  be  wise  ;  and  it 
is  possible  that  you  are  right.  It  is  possible  that  you 
impose  upon  a  few  who  would  otherwise  hold  you  for 
a  very  common  sort  of  person  ;  but  all  the  reputation 
for  wisdom  you  may  secure,  can  never  compensate  for 
what  you  lose  by  cutting  off  these  voluntary  supplies. 
Water  flows  naturally  into  the  humble,  open  spaces  ;  it 
never  seeks  the  mountains,  except  to  run  around  them. 
Self-love,  self-conceit,  pride  of  opinion — all  these  are 
barriers  to  knowledge  and  barriers  to  success.  During 
your  brief  life,  you  have  suffered  from  many  grave 
mistakes,  which,  had  you  been  a  teachable  man,  might 
easily  have  been  avoided.     Your  position  repelled  all 

information  voluntarily  offered,  and  your  pride  forbade 
8* 


J78  Letters  to  the  Jonefes. 


you  to  seek  for  it  at  the  only  a-vailable  sources.  You 
have  blundered  through  experiments  Avhose  results 
could  have  been  given  you  by  a  dozen  of  your  neigh- 
bors, who  took  a  secret  satisfaction  in  Avitnessing 
your  expensive  failures.  He  is  the  wise  man  only  who, 
holding  himself  imselfishly  tributary  to  the  lives  of 
others,  lays  hold  of,  and  appropriates,  the  wisdom  won 
by  the  life  around  him.  It  should  be  in  life  as  it  is  in 
science.  If  I  read  the  record  of  a  series  of  experi- 
ments by  which  a  certain  scientific  result  is  arrived  at, 
I  do  not  feel  myself  humbled  by  the  discovery,  nor 
humbled  by  using  the  discovery  for  my  own  advantage. 
I  contribute  freely  to  my  own  work — I  appropriate 
freely  the  results  of  the  work  of  others,  as  a  member 
of  the  great  commonwealth  of  life.  It  is  a  noble  thing 
to  teach  ;  it  is  a  blessed  thing  to  learn. 

I  have  told  you  that  there  are  probably  one  or  two 
things  about  which  you  know  more  than  others,  and 
touching  which  your  opinions  are  more  valuable  than 
those  of  others.  These  things  your  talents  have  given 
you.  special  power  to  learn ;  and  circumstances  have 
conspired  to  give  you  sufficient  opportunity.  There 
are  ten  thousand  things  on  which  you  assume  to  have 
an  opinion  which  you  never  can  have  a  valuable  opin- 
ion upon.  You  have  not  those  peculiar  gifts  which 
will  enable  you  to  acquire  experimental  knowledge  of 
them.     You  pretend  to  know  something  of  finance,  for 


To  Noel  Jones.  179 

instance,  but  it  is  not  in  you  to  comprehend  finance. 
No  matter  how  much  you  may  run  against  the  busi- 
ness M'orld — the  whole  of  your  financial  wisdom  will 
consist  of  familiarity  with  common  business  forms,  and 
the  grasp  of  the  general  fact  that  if  a  man  spends  more 
tlian  he  earns  he  loses  money,  while  if  he  earns  more 
than  he  spends,  he  is  making  it.  You  pretend  to  pos- 
sess a  good  literary  judgment  and  taste,  but  you  may 
study  from  this  time  until  doomsday  and  you  will 
never,  working  by  yourself,  win  either.  A  life  of 
study  with  relation  to  some  arts  will  not  win  for  you 
what  the  instincts  of  some  men  will  teach  them  in  a 
moment.  You  have  your  special  knowledge.  Talent 
and  opportunity  have  given  it  to  you.  There  is  an  in- 
definitely large  range  of  life  in  which  you  can  never 
discover  anything  that  Avill  be  of  the  slightest  value  to 
you  or  to  others.  There  is  an  indefinitely  large  range 
of  life  through  which  you  must  be  led  by  other  minds, 
or  you  will  never  explore  them  at  all.  The  bird-fancier 
with  whom  I  walk  in  the  fields  is  a  humble  person.  I 
may  talk  of  literature,  or  art,  or  science,  or  politics, 
and  he  will  show  no  sign  of  interest  or  intelligence  ; 
but  if  I  talk  of  birds  he  becomes  my  teacher — nay,  for 
the  time,  a  king.  The  air  around  him  is  full  of  crea- 
tures whose  habits  and  characteristics  he  knows.  lie 
can  pour  out  to  me  a  tide  of  beautiful  knowledge,  for 
the  acquirement  of  which  nature  has  given  him  the 


180 


Letters  to  the  Jonefes. 


needed  eyes  and  ears  and  apprehensions.  He  knows 
the  note  of  every  bird,  the  nest  of  every  bird,  the 
phimage  of  every  bird.  He  has  possessed  himself  of 
their  secrets,  so  that,  imitating  their  language,  and 
taking  the  advantage  over  them  which  reason  gives 
him,  he  can  entrap  them.  No  uncommon  bird,  be  it 
never  so  small,  can  invade  his  neighborhood  without  his 
detecting  it ;  and  he  marks  the  retirement  of  a  family 
from  the  region  that  they  have  frequented  as  if  they 
belonged  to  his  own  species,  and  had  advertised  their 
departure.  Now  this  man's  knowledge  may  be  humble, 
but  it  is  genuine  ;  and  it  is  knowledge  which,  without 
his  help,  you  could  not  have  acquired.  Nay,  you  never 
would  have  thought  of  studying  birds  any  more  than 
you  would  the  insects  that  slide  up  and  down  the  sun- 
beams before  your  door. 

Knowledge  is  a  very  precious  possession,  and  al- 
ways dignifies  its  possessor.  The  theorists  of  all  ages 
have  filled  the  world  with  words,  and  the  pulpit  and 
the  library  and  the  school  are  thronged  with  words 
that  represent  more  or  less  of  the  material  and  the 
spiritual  worlds,  but  knowledge  does  not  come  from 
the  pulpit,  or  the  library,  or  the  school.  To  know  a 
thing  is  to  live  a  thing — is  to  come  into  personal  con- 
tact and  acquaintance  with  a  thing  through  the  use  of 
powers  adapted  to  win  acquaintance  by  contact.  I 
have  seen  grave  doctors  and  literary  men  and  clergy- 


To  Noel  Jones.  181 

men  and  shrewd  business  men  listen  for  hours  to 
the  talk  of  a  man  who  knew  nothing  but  the  habits 
of  a  horse,  and  the  means  of  making  that  animal  the 
kind  and  healthy  servant  of  man  ;  and  although  he 
could  not  construct  a  sentence  of  English  elegantly, 
they  listened  as  intently  as  if  he  were  reciting  the 
choicest  poem  in  the  language  with  the  imction  of  a 
Kemble,  forgetful  alike  of  his  provincial  pronuncia- 
tion and  his  incorrect  English.  These  men  were  learn- 
ers. They  had  found  a  man  who  knew  something. 
He  had  been  studying  the  horse  all  his  life  for  them — 
studying  the  horse  in  the  stable  ;  and  they  were  drink- 
ing in  that  which  they  felt  to  be  positive  knowledge. 
It  was  worth  more  than  all  the  books  on  that  subject 
they  had  ever  read,  and  worth  more  than  all  their  ob- 
servation, because  they  had  not  the  proper  powers  for 
studying  the  horse  by  contact.  It  is  thus  that  every 
man  is  studying  something  for  every  other  man — gain- 
ing absolute  knowledge  by  contact  with  special  depart- 
ments of  material  existence,  or  by  demonstrating  spirit- 
ual truth  in  personal  experience. 

If  you  really  imagine  that  you  know  so  much  that 
you  do  not  need  to  seek  advice  or  ask  for  knowledge  at 
the  hand  of  even  the  humblest  man  with  whom  you 
are  thrown  into  relation,  you  must  change  your  opin- 
ion and  your  policy.  You  really  know  but  very  little, 
and  you  cannot  obtain  any  great  addition  to  your  posi- 


182  Letters  to  the  Jonefes. 


tiye  knowledge  without  laying  those  under  tribute 
whose  knowledge  has  been  won  as  yours  has  been 
won.  Or  if  you  imagine  that  you  have  powers  adapted 
to  discovery  and  demonstration  in  all  the  varied  fields 
of  knowledge,  you  must  relieve  yourself  of  that  mis- 
take. You  have  not  even  the  powers  necessary  to 
make  a  bird-catcher  or  a  horse-tamer.  It  is  not  in  you 
to  be  either ;  and  when  you  fancy  that  you  could  be 
a  speaker  of  Congress,  or  a  writer  for  the  press,  or  a 
preacher,  or  a  secretary  of  the  treasury,  if  you  only 
had  the  opportunity  for  the  development  or  the  trial 
of  your  powders,  you  are  simply  permitting  your  self- 
conceit  to  befool  you.  You  thirst  for  all  the  honors, 
and  would  be  king.  Be  content  with  your  specialty, 
and  bear  me  witness  that  even  the  bird-fancier  and  the 
horse-tamer  have  dignity  and  honor  which  you  have 
hardly  won  in  the  higher  field  in  which  Providence  has 
placed  you,  and  to  which  your  powers  are  specially 
adapted.  Conquer  your  specialty,  and  take  gratefully 
from  other  hands  the  knowledge  and  wisdom  w^hich 
you  have  neither  the  time  nor  the  power  to  acquire. 

You  do  not  know,  I  suppose,  that  your  assumption 
makes  all  w^ho  are  around  you  imcom  fort  able.  You  do 
not  give  them  their  places.  You  permit  to  them  no 
prerogatives  and  no  specialties.  The  very  mother  who 
bore  you  is  not  permitted  to  select  her  own  dress,  and 
the  wife  that  endures  you  has  her  milliner  and  mantua- 


To  Noel  Jones.  183 

maker  prescribed  to  her.  You  are  presumptuous 
enough  to  believe  that  you  know  how  to  dress  a 
woman.  Such  presumption  stuns  me.  I  tremble  when 
I  think  how  some  women — gentle,  albeit,  as  lambs,  iu 
the  enjoyment  of  money  and  liberty — would  spurn  the 
dictation  of  "  the  humble  person  who  writes  these 
lines,"  if  such  dictation  should  invade  the  sanctities  of 
their  wardrobe.  Oh,  Noel  Jones !  You  and  I  know 
nothing  about  these  things.  Our  opinion  is  not  good 
for  anything  on  these  subjects.  I  never  bought  but 
one  silk  on  my  own  responsibility,  and  the  shout  of 
derision  with  which  it  was  greeted  by  one  inconsiderate 
member  of  the  family,  and  the  mingled  pity  and  con- 
tempt expressed  by  the  silence  of  the  remainder,  have 
remained  so  terribly  fresh  in  my  memory  that  I  have 
never  since  presumed  to  take  such  a  liberty.  I  meekly 
carried  it  back,  and  begged  the  smirking  clerk  to  take 
it  again,  promising  to  trade  it  out  in  some  other 
way.  And  the  women  were  right,  as  they  usually  are. 
What  did  I  know  about  a  Avoman's  dress  ?  What  did 
I  know  about  colors  that  were  "  trying  to  the  com- 
plexion," and  colors  that  harmonized  with  each  other, 
and  colors  and  fabrics  that  harmonized  with  certain 
ages  and  seasons,  and  colors  and  fabrics  that  harmo- 
nized with  other  colors  and  fabrics  that  for  economical 
reasons  were  to  be  worn  with  them  ?  Nothing  ;  yet 
it  is  my  private  opinion  that  I  knew  as  much  as  you 


184  Letters  to  the  Jonefes. 

do.  The  tnith  is  that  the  amount  of  instinct  contained 
in  a  woman's  little  finger  is  worth  more  as  a  guide  in 
all  matters  pertaining  to  the  female  dress  than  your 
wisdom  and  mine  combined.  Suppose  the  women 
should  undertake  to  dictate  trousers  to  us !  I  would 
not  wear  a  garment  thus  selected,  on  principle ;  but 
you — I  think  such  an  evidence  of  presumption  on  the 
part  of  a  woman  would  kill  you  outright. 

No,  Mr.  Noel  Jones,  you  do  not  know  pretty  much 
everything.  Indeed,  you  know  but  a  very  few  things 
thoroughly,  and  you  would  now  know  a  great  deal  more 
than  you  do  if  you  had  never  pretended  to  know  any- 
thing. All  sensible  people  measure  you.  They  give 
you  credit  for  being  an  ordinarily  acute  and  wise  man 
— the  greatest  drawback  on  your  reputation  being 
your  assumption  of  knoM-ledge  that  you  do  not  possess, 
while  the  only  bar  to  your  popularity  resides  in  your 
unwillingness  to  give  to  men  and  women  the  place  and 
consideration  to  which  their  specialties  of  talent  and 
knowledge  entitle  them. 


THE    THIRTEENTH   LETTER. 

STo  ^lufus  Carafe  |oncs,  ITnfoscr. 

i  CONCERNING    THE  DUTIES  AND  DANGERS  OF  HIS   PRO- 

FESSION. 

YOU  have  recently  commenced  the  practice  of  a 
profession  of  which  I  possess  no  intimate  knoAvl- 
edge.  I  know,  generally,  that  it  is  a  respectable  pro- 
fession, which  requires  in  those  who  successfully  pur- 
sue it  the  best  style  of  intellectual  power,  thorough 
industry,  and  a  vast  amount  of  special  learning.  I 
know  that  it  is  a  profession  which,  in  times  of  peace, 
attracts  to  itself  the  most  ambitious  young  men,  be- 
cause it  affords  the  best  opportunities  for  rising  to 
positions  of  influence  and  power.  I  know  also,  that, 
while  it  is  prostituted  to  the  basest  uses — as  any  pro- 
fession may  be — it  fulfils  a  want  in  the  establishment 
of  justice  between  man  and  man,  and  occupies  a  legiti- 
mate and  an  important  place  in  society.     I  can  very 


186 


Letters  to  the  Jonefes. 


honestly  congratulate  you  on  your  connection  with 
this  profession,  and  your  prospects  in  it.  Will  you 
read  what  an  outsider  has  to  say  of  its  dangers  and 
duties  ? 

The  principal — perhaps  the  only — dangers  which 
lie  in  your  way  relate  to  your  personal  character.  I 
regard  you  as  a  Christian  young  man,  and  I  find  you 
in  a  profession  which  necessarily  brings  you  into  con- 
tact with  the  meanest  and  the  vilest  elements  in  the 
community.  Almost  every  day  of  your  life  you  find 
yourself  in  communication  with  men  whose  motives  are 
vile  and  whose  characters  are  base.  You  are  obliged 
to  associate  with  them.  You  not  unfrequently  find 
your  interest  and  sympathies  engaged  in  their  behalf. 
Almost  the  whole  education  of  the  court-room — to  say 
nothing  of  the  office — is  an  education  in  the  ways  of 
sin.  It  is  there  that  murder  and  robbery  and  adultery 
and  swindling  and  cruelty  and  all  the  forms  of  crime 
and  vice  are  exposed,  to  their  minutest  details,  and  as 
a  lawyer,  you  are  necessarily  absorbed  by  these  de- 
tails. There  is  not  a  form  of  vice  with  which  you  are 
not  bound  to  become  familiar.  All  the  meannesses 
and  all  the  rottennesses  of  human  nature  and  himian 
character,  and  all  the  modes  of  their  exhibition,  must 
come  into  contact  with  you,  and  leave  their  mark. 
How  this  can  be  done  without  the  blunting  of  your 
sensibihties  I  do  not  know.     How  this  can  be  done 


To  Rufus  Choate  Jones.  187 

without  damaging,  if  not  destroying,  your  moral  sense, 
is  beyond  my  comprehension.  I  have  heard  very  good 
lawyers  talk  about  the  most  shocking  cases  in  a  shock- 
ingly professional  way,  and  witnessed  their  amusement 
with  the  details  of  some  beastly  case  that  had  found 
its  way  into  the  court-room.  I  should  be  sorry  to  think 
that  you  could  ever  acquire  such  moral  indifference,  yet 
I  know  that  you  may,  and  believe  that  you  will,  if  you 
do  not  guard  yourself  particularly  against  it. 

It  seems  to  rae  quite  impossible  that  a  man  should 
have  a  professional  interest  in  the  details  of  a  case  of 
crime  without  losing  something  of  the  moral  repug- 
nance with  which  the  case  would  naturally  inspire  him. 
I  suppose  that  this  loss  of  moral  sensibility  may  not 
necessarily  be  accompanied  by  actual  depravity,  yet  it 
is,  nevertheless,  an  evil,  for  it  destroys  one  of  the  bar- 
riers to  depravity.  Any  influence  which  familiarizes 
the  mind  with  sin  and  crime  to  such  an  extent  that  sin 
and  crime  cease  to  fill  the  soul  with  horror  or  disgust, 
is  much  to  be  deprecated.  If  you  had  a  young  son  or 
a  young  daughter,  you  would  regard  any  event  which 
would  bring  their  minds  into  familiarity  with  crime  as 
a  calamity.  It  would  probably  be  a  greater  calamity 
to  them  than  to  you,  but  why  it  should  be  different  in 
kind,  I  cannot  tell.  I  think  you  have  only  to  look 
around  you,  among  your  own  profession,  to  find  men 
who   have  received   incurable  damage  through   their 


188  Letters  to  the  Jonefes. 

professional  intimacy  with  sin.  You  know  numbers 
of  lawyers  who  take  an  interest  which  is  anything  but 
professional  in  the  details  of  a  case  of  shame  that  ought 
to  fill  them  with  an  abhorrence  so  deep  that  they 
would  gladly  fly  from  it. 

Again,  constant  familiarity  with  the  weak  and  the 
erring  side  of  human  nature  destroys  respect  for  human 
nature  itself.  The  more  you  learn  of  the  members  of 
the  legal  profession,  the  more  you  will  learn  that  great 
numbers  of  them  have  ceased  to  respect  human  nature. 
This  seems  to  me  to  be  one  of  the  greatest  calamities 
that  can  befal  any  man.  I  do  not  wonder  at  this  efiect 
at  all.  There  is  no  class  of  people  in  the  world  that 
see  so  great  cause  to  hold  human  nature  in  contempt 
as  the  legal.  They  come  into  contact  with  men  whom 
the  world  calls  honorable  and  good,  and  find  in  them 
such  traits  of  meanness,  and  such  hypocrisy  and  dis- 
honor, and  such  readiness  to  be  crippled  under  tempta- 
tion, and  such  untruthfulness  under  the  pressure  of 
selfish  interest,  that  they  naturally  enough  conclude 
that  one  man  is  about  as  bad  as  another,  and  that  no 
man  is  to  be  relied  upon  where  his  appetites  or  his 
selfish  interests  are  concerned.  I  say  that  I  do  not 
wonder  at  this,  but  it  is  much  to  be  deprecated  ;  and 
I  know  of  no  way  to  avoid  it,  except  by  free  associa- 
tion with  good  men  and  innocent  women  and  children. 
When  a  man  has  lost  his  respect  for  human  nature,  he 


To  Rufus  Choate  Jones.  189 

has  lost,   necessarily,   his    respect    for    himself,    for, 
whether  he  wills  it  or  not,  he  goes  with  his  kind. 

But  there  is  another  danger  still  which  will  assail 
you — more  subtle  and  more  damaging  than  profes- 
sional interest  in  crime  or  professional  intimacy  with 
the  worst  side  of  human  nature,  and  this  is  professional 
interest  in  criminals  themselves.  I  am  sorry  to  say  it, 
but  you  will  find  yourself  the  professional  defender  of 
men  whom  you  know  to  be  the  foes  of  society — of 
thieves,  pickpockets,  gamblers,  murderers,  seducers, 
swindlers.  You  will  find  yourself  either  lying  or 
tempted  to  lie  in  order  to  shield  from  justice  men 
whom  you  know  ought  to  be  punished.  You  will  find 
yourself  arrayed  against  law  and  order,  against  the 
peace  of  the  commonwealth,  against  the  purity  of  so- 
ciety, against  morals  and  religion,  in  the  defense  of  a 
man  whom  you  know  to  be  guilty  of  the  crime  charged 
against  him,  and  deserving  of  the  punishment  attached 
to  it  by  the  laws  of  the  land.  I  say  "  you,"  because 
I  suppose  you  will  naturally  follow  in  the  traok  of  the 
principal  members  of  your  profession.  Every  criminal 
is  defended  to  the  uttermost  by  men  who  are  zealous 
in  their  attemj^t  to  prove  him  innocent,  and  to  shield 
him  from  punishment.  Great  professional  reputations 
are  sometimes  acquired  by  sa\'ing  from  the  gallows  a 
man  whom  everybody  is  morally  certain  ought  to  be 
hung.     A  triumph  of  crime  like   this  is   quoted  ad- 


190  Letters  to  the  Jonefes. 


miringly  by  the  profession,  and  regarded  with  com- 
placent triumph  by  the  professional  victor.  I  have 
heard  men  talk  by  the  hour  to  prove  that  to  be  true 
which  they  and  everybody  else  knew,  in  all  moral  cer- 
tainty, to  be  false,  and  to  demonstrate  the  innocence 
of  a  man  whom  they  knew  to  be  guilty.  Indeed,  this 
mode  of  proceeding  has  become  a  part  of  the  ma- 
chinery of  the  law,  and  is  recognized  as  entirely  legiti- 
mate. "We  hear,  occasionally,  of  cases  so  bad  that  the 
counsel  engaged  in  the  defence  throw  them  up  in  dis- 
gust ;  but  these  are  veiy  rare,  and  I  doubt  whether 
such  a  surrender  is  regarded  as  a  fair  thing  by  the 
profession. 

Now  I  ask  you,  before  professional  usage  has  had 
time  to  warp  your  common  sense,  what  must  be  the 
effect  upon  the  mind  of  an  advocate,  of  throwing  the 
entire  sum  of  his  personal  power — all  his  logic,  all  his 
learning,  all  his  sympathies  and  desires,  all  his  interests 
and  all  his  earnestness — into  the  defence  of  a  man 
whom  he  has  good  reason  to  believe  is  a  foe  to  law 
and  order,  and  justly  deserving  of  punishment  for  a 
breach  of  both  ?  What  must  be  the  effect  of  identify- 
ing his  own  personal  and  professional  reputation  with 
the  success  of  a  criminal,  in  his  attempt  to  shield  him- 
self from  justice  ?  What  must  be  the  effect  upon  his 
mind  of  a  triumph  over  the  law  for  himself  and  for 
him  who  has  trampled  it  under  his  feet  ?     I  know  that 


To  Rufus  Choate  Jones.  191 

there  is  a  specious  style  of  argument  in  use  in  your 
profession  which  takes  the  decision  of  a  case  out  of  the 
hands  of  a  criminal's  professional  defender,  and  gives 
it  to  the  jury  before  which  he  is  to  be  tried.  The 
lawyers  will  say  that  an  advocate  has  no  right  to  decide 
on  the  guilt  of  a  man  on  trial — that  his  work  is  to 
defend ;  and  that  twelve  men,  whose  business  under 
the  law  it  is,  will  make  the  decision.  This  is  strictly 
professional  talk — the  talk  of  men  who  make  a  dis- 
tinction between  law  and  justice — the  talk  of  men  who 
stand  by  that  which  is  simply  legal,  and  let  justice  and 
right  take  care  of  themselves.  These  men  would  tell 
you  that  if  you  were  engaged  in  the  defence  of  a  per- 
son whom  you  were  morally  certain  was  guilty  of  the 
crime  charged  upon  him,  you  would  not  be  excusable 
did  you  not  do  what  you  could  to  save  him,  by  a  resort 
to  every  legal  trick  and  quibble  of  which  you  might  be 
the  master.  This  is  precisely  what  they  do.  They 
personally  rejoice  in  the  defeat  of  justice.  Whenever 
justice  is  defeated,  and  right  denied  or  destroyed,  in 
"  a  court  of  justice,"  there  is  always  present  one  lawyer 
to  rejoice  personally  over  the  fact — a  lawyer  whose 
sympathies  and  success  are  identified  with  the  triumph 
of  the  wrong-doer. 

I  remember,  when  a  lad,  of  witnessing  an  interview 
between  a  couple  of  eminent  lawyers, — each  of  whom 
has  come  to  great  personal  and  political  honor  siuc^ 


192  Letters  to  the  Jonefes. 


then, — which  to  my  unsophisticated  moral  sense,  was 
quite  shocking.  One  had  been  attending  a  term  of 
court  in  an  adjoining  county,  for  the  management  of 
an  important  case  in  which  both  were  interested.  The 
returning  lawyer  greeted  his  associate  with  a  triumphant 
flourish  of  his  riding  stick,  and  exclaimed — "  We've 
beaten  them  !  we've  beaten  them  !  "  Thereupon  they 
gleefully  talked  the  matter  over.  It  seemed  very 
sti-ange  to  me  that  they  could  rejoice  at  having  "  beaten 
them,"  without  the  slightest  reference  to  the  matter 
of  justice  and  of  right.  If  the  man  had  been  engaged 
in  a  personal  fight  or  a  horse  race,  and  had  come  ofi*  the 
winner,  he  would  have  expressed  his  triumph  in  the 
same  way,  and  with  just  as  little  reference  to  the  moral 
aspects  and  relations  of  the  case.  This  was  a  profes- 
sional triumph,  and  it  did  not  matter,  apparently, 
whether  justice  had  shared  the  victory  with  him,  or 
had  been  vanquished  with  his  opponents  in  the  suit. 
This  professional  indifference  to  justice  and  to  right, 
acquired  by  the  identification  of  your  own  personal 
success  with  the  safety  and  success  of  those  whom  you 
know  or  believe  to  be  criminals,  is  what  I  warn  you 
against.  I  tell  you  that  this  cannot  be  indulged  in 
without  injury  to  you,  and  were  it  not  an  migrateful 
and  offensive  task,  I  could  refer  you  to  illustrious  in- 
stances of  legal  depravity,  induced  by  earnest  defence 
of  the  wrong.     I  could  point  you  to  eminent  lawyers. 


To  Rufus  Choate  Jones.  193 

with  whom  lying  is  as  easy  as  breathing — men  who  do 
not  scruple  to  misrepresent,  misconstrue,  prevaricate, 
cheat,  resort  to  all  mean  and  imworthy  subterfuges, 
suppress,  make  use  of  all  available  means  to  carry  a 
point  against  law  and  good  society  and  pure  morals,  in 
favor  of  ruffians  who  deserve  nothing  better  than  the 
halter  or  the  prison.  A  lawyer  has  only  to  do  this 
thing  to  a  sufficient  extent  with  sufficient  earnestness, 
to  lose  both  his  sense  of,  and  respect  for,  the  right,  and 
to  become  morally  worthless. 

I  suppose  that  you  will  tell  me  that  I  am  a  dreamer, 
and  that  I  am  suggesting  something  that  is  entirely 
impracticable,  when  I  advise  you  never  to  permit  your- 
self to  be  professionally  arrayed  against  justice.  Your 
seniors  in  the  profession  will  smile  contemptuously  at 
my  suggestion,  I  know,  and  I  will  not  blame  them,  for 
I  know  how  fatally  they  have  been  warped  by  their 
practice.  I  take  the  broad  ground  that  no  man,  what- 
ever maybe  his  profession,  has  a  moral  right  to  defeat, 
or  to  strive  by  all  the  means  at  his  command,  to  defeat 
the  ends  of  justice  in  the  community  in  Avhich  he  lives, 
and  that  no  man  can  consciously  identify  himself  -with 
the  wrong,  and  fight  earnestly  for  its  triumph,  without 
inflicting  incalculable  damage  upon  his  owti  moral  sense 
and  moral  character,  I  do  not  believe  that  you — a 
professional  man — have  a  moral  right  to  do  in  a  court 
of  justice  what  I — not  a  professional  man — have  no 


194  Letters  to  the  Jonefes. 

moral  right  to  do.  I  do  not  believe  that  you  have  a 
moral  right  to  stand  up  before  a  jury,  and  try  to  mis- 
lead it  by  tricks  of  language,  by  quibbles  of  law,  by 
si^ringing  of  false  issues,  by  engaging  their  s}Tnpathies 
at  the  expense  of  their  reason,  and  I  know  it  is  a  moral 
impossibility  for  you  to  do  it  without  damage  to  your- 
self. Mark  my  words  :  I  do  not  advise  you  to  leave  a 
client  while  you  have  a  reasonable  doubt  of  his  guilt, 
or  a  case  where  you  have  a  reasonable  doubt  of  its  in- 
justice ;  but  I  say  without  hesitation  that  when  you 
become  convinced  that  you  can  go  no  further  in  the 
professional  advocacy  of  a  man  or  a  cause,  without 
arraying  yourself  against  right,  against  justice,  against 
the  well  being  of  society,  you  are  bound,  in  duty  to 
God,  the  state,  and  yourself,  to  abandon  that  man  or 
cause  ;  and  all  the  professional  sophistry  which  you 
and  your  professional  brethren  can  muster  can  never 
convince  me  to  the  contrary. 

The  fact  that  the  money  of  thieves  and  scoundrels 
will  buy  the  best  legal  service  to  be  had  is  notorious, 
and  it  is  but  a  short  time  ago  that  it  appeared  in  evi- 
dence, in  a  court  of  justice,  that  a  certain  crime  was 
committed  by  a  man  Avho,  calculating  his  chances  for 
detection,  relied  upon  a  certain  lawyer  to  "  get  him  off." 
Was  that  lawyer  practically  a  friend  or  a  foe  to  society  ? 
Had  he  a  right  professionally,  or  in  any  way,  so  to  con- 
duct himself  as  to  encourage  the  commission  of  crime  ? 


To  Rufus  Choate  Jones. 


195 


But  I  leave  this  point  for  one  closely  related  to  it. 
The  whole  tendency  of  your  profession,  as  it  seems  to 
me,  is  the  substitution  of  a  human  for  a  divine  rule  of 
action.  I  think  that  a  lawyer  naturally  comes  to  view 
every  action  and  every  man  from  a  legal  stand-point. 
All  your  practical  dealing  with  men  is  on  a  legal  basis. 
If  there  be  a  hole  in  the  law,  large  enough  to  let 
through  your  criminal  client,  you  will  pull  him  through. 
A  flaw  in  an  indictment  will  spoil  a  case  legally,  while 
morally  and  rationally  it  is  not  touched  at  all.  You 
feel  justified  in  doing  anything  that  is  legal,  to  favor 
your  client,  or  your  cause.  Your  conscience  has  come 
to  identify  that  which  is  legal  with  that  which  is  right. 
The  law  of  the  Lord  is  perfect ;  the  law  of  man  is  im- 
perfect ;  and  your  constant  association  with  the  latter, 
naturally  crowds  the  other  out  of  sight.  You  measure 
the  actions  of  men  by  that  prescriptive  red  tape  of 
yours,  and  the  standard  of  right  within  your  own  soul 
is  degraded. 

Litigation  is  one  of  the  evils  of  the  world,  and  is 
voluntarily  pursued  more  to  secure  personal  will  than 
sound  justice.  There  are  many  cases  of  doubt  in  which 
a  suit  at  law  is  entirely  justifiable,  not  to  say  desirable  ; 
but  you  are  already  old  enough  to  know  that  two- 
thirds  of  the  civil  cases  tried  would  never  find  their 
way  into  court  if  simple  justice  were  all  that  the  liti- 
gants were   after.      Selfish   interest,   personal   greed, 


196  Letters  to  the  Jonefes. 

pride  of  purpose,  wilfulness  and  waywardness — these 
are  the  elements  of  litigation  everywhere.  Now  it  is 
the  misfortune  of  your  profession  that  its  revenue  is 
very  largely  dependent  upon  the  selfishness  and  stub- 
bornness of  men.  It  is  apparently  for  the  personal 
interest  of  every  lawyer  to  foster  a  litigious  spirit  in 
the  community,  and  to  nurse  every  cause  of  difference 
between  men.  That  this  is  done  by  the  more  disrep- 
utable of  your  profession,  I  presume  you  will  admit ; 
and  I  am  sure  that  you  will  not  deny  that  the  better 
class  of  lawyers  do  not  discourage  litigation  as  much 
as  they  might.  My  friend,  here  is  a  duty  which  I 
exhort  you  not  to  avoid.  If  you  can  prevent  a  lawsuit 
between  citizens,  in  which  no  important  end  of  justice 
is  involved,  or  settle  a  difference  which  is  more  a  ques- 
tion of  personal  will  than  of  right,  then,  as  a  Christian 
man,  and  a  good  citizen,  you  are  bound  to  interfere  at 
whatever  personal  sacrifice.  If  I  were  to  foster  a  legal 
quarrel  between  neighbors,  which  my  advice  would 
prevent,  you  would  call  me  a  bad  neighbor  and  a  bad 
citizen.  The  fact  that  it  is  for  your  professional  in- 
terest that-neighbors  quarrel  does  not  relieve  you  from 
the  same  opprobrium,  for  the  same  mean  office.  There 
is  no  man  in  the  world  so  well  situated  for  promoting 
the  ends  of  peace  between  citizens  as  the  lawyer,  and 
if  he  do  not  avail  himself  of  his  opportimities,  then  he 
fails  in  the  offices  of  good  citizenship. 


To  Rufus  Choate  Jones.  197 

I  hesitate  to  speak  of  one  of  the  dangers  to  which 
you  are  exposed,  because  it  supposes  that  you  can  cease 
to  be  a  gentleman  ;  but  you  ■will  find  that,  in  the  court- 
room, lawyers  not  unfrequently  indulge  in  practices 
which,  while  they  may  be  strictly  legal,  are  not  gentle- 
manly. I  declare  to  you  that  I  have  witnessed  more 
cowardly  insolence  in  a  court-room  than  in  any  other 
place  that  pretended  to  be  conti*olled  by  the  laws  of 
decency.  I  have  seen  men  whose  years  and  positions 
should  have  given  them  dignity,  brow-beat  and  badger 
and,  in  every  way  sufierable  by  a  too  indulgent  court, 
abuse  old,  simple-hearted  men  and  honest  women, 
whose  crime  it  was  to  be  summoned  as  unwilling  wit- 
nesses by  the  party  opposing  them.  I  am  not  familiar 
with  bar-rooms  or  brothels,  but  I  think  it  would  be 
hard  to  find  in  any  of  them  such  flagrant  instances  of 
ill-breeding  as  are  witnessed  at  every  term  of  court  in 
every  court-room  in  the  land.  I  do  not  care  how  high 
the  lawyer  stands  who  takes  advantage  of  his  position 
to  abuse  the  honest  witnesses  which  the  law  places  in 
his  hands  for  examination  : — he  is  no  gentleman.  He 
is  a  mean  and  cowardly  scoundrel.  Under  the  protec- 
tion of  the  court,  he  indulges  in  practices  so  insulting 
to  honest  and  blamelesss  men  and  women  that  all  there 
is  within  them  of  manhood  and  womanhood  rises  to 
resent  the  indignity,  yet  they  are  powerless,  and  the 
unwhipped  coward  rubs  his  hands  over  his  clever  boor- 


198  Letters  to  the  Jonefes. 

ishness  and  brutality.  For  your  own  sake — nay,  for 
decency's  sake — be  a  gentleman  in  the  court-room,  and 
do  what  you  can  to  compel  others  to  be  gentlemen. 
This  gratuitous  abuse  of  those  who  are  so  unfortunate 
as  to  be  summoned  as  witnesses,  by  the  lawyers  into 
whose  hands  they  fall,  is  the  shame  and  disgrace  of 
your  profession. 

Rather  a  formidable  array  of  dangers  you  will  say, 
I  imagine  ;  and  perhaps  you  will  add  that  it  is  not  a 
very  promising  display  of  duties.  1  grant  it,  but  I 
seek  the  glory  of  your  profession  and  the  good  of 
yourself.  The  profession  of  the  law,  when  it  confines 
itself  to  the  ministry  of  justice,  is  one  of  the  noblest 
in  which  a  man  can  engage.  In  that  aspect,  it  is 
worthy  of  the  devotion  of  the  best  minds  which  the 
coimtry  produces  ;  but  the  profession  of  the  law  when 
it  is  used  in  the  prostitution  of  justice  for  hire, — when 
it  is  freely  lent,  with  all  the  personal  resources  of  him 
who  practises  it,  to  aid  the  notorious  criminal  to  escape 
the  pvmishment  due  to  his  crimes,  and  to  thwart  the 
adjustment  of  the  right  between  man  and  man,  is  an 
outrageous  nuisance.  I  would  have  you  remain  what 
I  believe  you  now  are — a  Christian  lawyer — a  man 
who  can  never  forget  that  the  royal  right  is  above  the 
legal  letter — that  God  lives,  and  claims  a  place  in  the 
human  soul,  and  that  He  refuses  to  live  there  side  by 
riide  with  venal  falsehood.     I  would  have  you  re  tarn, 


To  Rufus  Choate  Jones.  199 

amid  all  the  temptations  of  your  profession,  your  love 
of  justice  and  of  right,  and  your  hatred  of  injustice  and 
wrong.  I  would  have  you  guard  yourself  against  con- 
founding that  which  is  right  with  that  which  is  legal, 
so  that  the  latter  shall  always  seem  essentially  the 
former.  I  would  have  you  maintain  in  all  places  the 
demeanor  of  a  gentleman.  I  would  have  you  a  good 
citizen  and  not  a  promoter  of  litigation.  I  would  have 
you  so  pure,  and  upright,  and  honorable,  and  peace- 
loving,  that  men  shall  refer  their  differences  to  you 
rather  than  carry  them  into  court.  I  do  not  wish  to 
appeal  to  any  selfish  motives,  but  my  opinion  is  that 
such  a  lawyer  as  I  desire  you  to  be,  would  command  a 
premium  in  all  the  markets  of  the  world. 


THE   FOURTEENTH   LETTER. 

Co  ilrs.  ^ognl  |urpl£  lottts,  ■ 

CONCERNING   HER  ABSORBING  DEVOTION  TO  HER   OWN 

PERSON. 

I  HAVE  a  great  respect  for  the  human  body.  As 
a  piece  of  vitalized  mechanism  it  is  the  most  ad- 
mirable thing  in  the  world.  As  the  dwelling-place  and 
associate  and  minister  of  the  human  soul — the  possess- 
or of  those  exquisite  senses  through  which  that  soul 
feeds  and  breathes  and  receives  knowledge  and  inspira- 
tion— its  first  home — the  vestibule  of  its  immortality 
— I  give  it  honor.  It  is  a  thing  of  dignity — a  sacred 
tiiincr — sacred  to  its  possessor,  and  sacred  to  those  to 
whom  in  sacred  love  it  may  be  given.  Whenever  the 
soul  rises  to  a  true  appreciation  of  its  own  worth,  it 
pays  honor  to  the  body  which  bears  it.  Barbarism 
wanders  in  negligent  nakedness,  but  civilization,  of 
whatever  type,  honors  the  body — covers  it  from  sight 


— drapes  and  jDrotects  it  with  reference  to  ideas  of 
comfort  and  taste.  Innocence,  like  that  possessed  by 
infancy,  may  feel  no  shame  without  drapery,  but  vir- 
tue, a  very  different  thing,  grows  crimson  when  un- 
covered. 

The  human  body  is  a  thing  of  beauty  as  well  as  of 
dignity.  All  civilized  natfons  have  recognized  -this 
fact,  and  all  have  striven,  more  or  less  effectually,  to 
reveal  or  enhance  that  beauty  by  dress.  It  costs 
almost  as  much  to  clothe  civilization  as  it  does  to  feed 
it ;  and  human  ingenuity  is  taxed  to  its  utmost,  and  all 
departments  of  nature  are  laid  under  tribute,  to  pro- 
duce the  fabrics  witn  which  civilization  enrobes  itself. 

This  domain  of  dress  is  one  which  Fashion  has  con- 
quered and  made  peculiarly  her  own,  and  it  ought  to 
be  a  matter  of  interest  to  you,  madam,  as  I  doubt  not 
it  will  be  to  people  generally,  to  note  how  far  that 
power  has  sophisticated  the  idea  of  personal  dignity  on 
which  dress  is  based.  Up  to  a  certain  point  of  beauty 
of  fabric  and  elaborateness  of  ornamentation,  dress 
can  be  carried  legitimately,  and  with  no  violence  to 
personal  dignity ;  but  beyond  that  point,  there  must 
always  come  a  resort  to  the  barbaric  idea,  which  must 
necessarily  bring  personal  degradation.  Barbarism, 
without  any  thought  of  personal  dignity — of  bodily 
sacredness — has  gratified  its  vanity  and  desire  for  dis- 
tinction by  means  of  marks  and  gaudy  ornaments.  It 
9* 


202  Letters  to  the  Jonefes. 

has  tattooed  its  skin,  hung  rings  in  its  nose,  worn  beads 
on  its  neck — at  its  girdle — at  its  knees,  stuck  feathers 
in  its  hair,  and  daubed  paint  upon  its  face.  This  kind 
of  oroamentation — an  exhibition  of  personal  vanity — 
is  the  highest  expression  of  the  highest  idea  which 
barbarism  has  ever  entertained  concerning  the  human 
body.  This  vanity  touching  the  person,  that  feels 
gratification  in  ornaments  and  trappings,  has  not  the 
slightest  natural  connection  with  that  better  idea  which 
finds  in  graceful  drapery  the  refuge  and  shield  of  the 
dignity  belonging  to  the  living  tenement  of  the  living 
soul.  You  Avill  see,  therefore,  that  whenever  fashion 
carries  dress  to  extremes,  or  beyond  the  point  of  gi\"ing 
the  body  a  graceful  and  becoming  covering,  it  always 
resorts  to  barbarism  to  help  it  out — to  partial  naked- 
ness, or  to  jewels  and  precious  stones  and  trinkets  and 
ribbons  and  laces  and  all  possible  sorts  of  ornaments. 
The  fashionable  belle  of  Newport  and  Saratoga  enters 
the  assembly  room  or  the  dining  hall  only  to  show  that 
she  is  sister  of  the  South  Sea  Islander,  and  that  the 
same  idea  controls  them  both. 

The  curse  of  Eden  seems  to  have  been  the  subjec- 
tion of  the  soul  to  the  service  of  the  body.  When  I 
reflect  upon  the  relative  dignity  and  importance  of  the 
soul  and  the  body — the  immortality  of  the  one  and  the 
mortality  of  the  other,  the  heavenly  alliances  of  the  one 
and  the  earthly  alliances  of  the  other,  the  Godlike  ca- 


To  Mrs.   Royal   Purple  Jones,  203 

pacities  of  the  one  and  the  brutal  appetites  of  the 
other — it  astonishes  me  to  realize  that  the  soul's  work 
in  this  world  is,  in  the  majority  of  cases,  simply  that 
of  procuring  food  and  raiment  and  shelter  for  the 
body.  It  astonishes  me  to  realize  that  under  every 
form  of  civilization  the  body  is  the  soul's  tyrant  and 
leads  it  by  the  nose.  Naturally,  the  body  is  upper- 
most in  the  general  thought.  Men  must  have  food 
and  clothing  and  shelter,  or  die  ;  they  must  win  all 
these  for  their  children,  or  lose  them.  So,  under  the 
circumstances  of  our  life,  and  the  usages  of  our  civili- 
zation, the  body  is  necessarily  a  constant  topic  of 
thought.  It  is  not  strange,  therefore,  that  the  soul 
often  forgets  that  it  is  master,  and  loses  sight  of  its 
own  dignity  and  destiny  in  its  habitual  devotion  to 
the  satisfaction  of  bodily  want. 

But  this,  Mrs.  Royal  Purple  Jones,  is  not  your 
trouble.  You  are  not  obliged  to  work  for  a  living. 
Your  money  has  been  earned  for  you  by  other  hands, 
and  your  devotion  to  your  body  is  voluntary  and  not 
compulsory.  Your  soul,  with  all  its  fine  capacities, 
and  its  possibilities  of  culture  and  of  goodness,  is  the 
willing  and  devoted  slave  of  the  body  in  which  it 
lives.  Your  person  is  the  central  motive  of  your  life. 
Now  that  I  call  your  attention  to  the  fact,  will  you  tell 
me,  or  attempt  to  realize  to  yourself,  how  much 
thought  and  how  much  time  you  devote  to  the  hair 


204  Letters  to  the  Jonefes. 

that  adorns  your  head  ?  Hoav  much  of  both  do  you 
give  to  the  little  matter  of  eye-brows  ? — how  much  to 
your  teeth  ? — how  much  to  your  face  as  a  whole, 
with  all  the  considerations  of  cuticular  texture  and 
complexion  ? — how  much  to  your  hands  ? — how  much 
to  your  arms  ? — how  much  to  your  neck  ? — how  much 
to  your  feet  ? — how  much  to  your  general  configura- 
tion ?  Madam,  you  are  in  love  with  your  own  body, 
and  the  keenest  delight  of  your  whole  life  consists  in 
having  that  body  admired  and  praised.  The  sense  of 
personal  modesty  and  dignity  which  flies  to  dress  for 
refuge  has  really  no  place  in  you.  I  do  not  mean  that 
you  are  an  immodest  woman,  but  that  this  sense  of 
personal  sacredness  has  been  overcome  by  personal 
vanity  so  far  that  you  dress  rather  to  show  than  to 
hide  your  body — to  attract  attention  to  your  person 
than  to  make  it  the  modest  and  inconspicuous  tene- 
ment of  your  soul.  What  is  it  that  most  absorbs  your 
time  ?  What  is  it  that  most  absorbs  your  money  ? 
Is  it  not  dress  ?  Think  of  the  silks  that  you  buy,  and 
the  study  that  you  bestow  upon  their  selection  and 
manufacture  into  garments !  Think  of  the  hats  and 
the  gloves  and  the  jewelry,  and  of  the  intense  and  ab- 
sorbing interest  which  attend  their  purchase  and  first 
wearing !  Think  of  your  constant  observation  and 
criticism  of  the  dress  of  your  friends  !  I.  believe  you 
will    admit    to  yourself,  if  not  to  me,  that   I   have 


To  Mrs.  Royal  Purple  Jones.         205 

found  you  out — that  I  know  where  you  have  your 
Hfe. 

When  you  attend  a  party,  what  is  the  highest  ob- 
ject you  contemplate  ?  Do  you  attend  for  the  purpose 
of  enjoying  the  conversation  of  dear  friends,  or  to  min- 
ister to  the  pleasure  of  others  by  your  own  gifts  of 
conversation,  or  to  enjoy  the  sight  of  pleasant  faces, 
or  to  hear  music,  or  to  engage  in  dancing,  or  such 
other  amusements  as  may  be  indulged  in  ?  Is  it  for 
all  or  any  of  these  that  you  attend  ?  Is  it  not  rather 
to  show  your  dress,  and  to  display,  for  the  admiration 
of  the  gentlemen,  and  the  enxj  of  the  ladies  like  your- 
self, your  richly  draped  and  elaborately  ornamented 
person  ?  Would  you  have  a  single  motive  to  attend 
a  party  if  you  were  obliged  to  dress  inconspicuously 
and  plainly  ?  Is  it  not  true  that  your  one  absorbing 
thought  with  relation  to  such  attendance  concerns  the 
dressing  and  adornment  of  your  person  ?  And  when 
you  return  from  it,  do  you  think  of  anything  except  the 
simple  questions  as  to  how  you  looked,  and  how  you 
compared  or  contrasted  with  certain  other  women  who 
unfortunately  are  as  much  devoted  to  their  persons  as 
you  are  ?  When  you  walk  in  the  streets,  what  are  you 
thinking  about  ?  Are  you  thinking  of  what  you  see 
in  the  shop-windows,  or  what  the  shop-windows  see  on 
you  ?  Are  you  not  conscious  that  many  eyes  are 
turned  upon  you  to  see  what  you  take  great  pains  to 


206  Letters  to  the  Jonefes. 

make  attractive  to  all  eyes  ?  "When  you  dress  for 
church,  and  when  you  enter  the  sacred  edifice,  wkat 
thought  is  uppermost  in  your  mind  ?  Is  it  a  thought 
which  becomes  the  holy  place,  or  is  it  still  of  the 
drapery  and  the  ornaments  with  which  you  have  hung 
your  person  ?  Are  you  not  filled  everywhere — under 
all  circumstances — with  these  same  vanities  ?  Do 
they  not  haunt  and  hold  you  constantly  ? 

You  need  not  blush  and  hang  your  head,  because 
you  find  that  I  know  you  better  than  you  have  hitherto 
known  yourself,  for  you  have  plenty  of  company.     The 
whole  world  of  fashionable  women  is  controlled  by  the 
same  thoughts  and  ideas  that  control  you— a  world  of 
women  who,  in  the  pursuit  of  personal   adornment, 
have  adopted  the  ideas  of  barbarism,  and  have  per- 
sonally descended    toward   barbarism    through   such 
adoption.     You,  madam,  and  all  of  your  associates, 
have,  m  your  devotion  to  the  dressing  and  bedizening 
of  your  persons,  degraded  yourselves  pitifully.     The 
whole  number   of  fashionable   female  souls   are   but 
slaves  to  the  fading  bodies  in  which  they  live.     When 
I  look  in  upon  a  fashionable  watering-place,  and  see 
how  dress  and  personal  adornment  absolutely  monopo- 
lize the  time  and  the  thought  of  the  fashionable  women 
assembled  there— when  I  witness  the  rivalry  amon^ 
them— the  attempts  to  outshine  each  other  in  diamonds 
and  all  the  tributaries  to  costly  dress— when  I  see  their 


To  Mrs.  Royal  Purple  Jones.         207 

jealousies,  and  hear  their  ill-natured  criticisms  of  each 
other,  and  then  realize  that  these  women  are  mothers 
and  those  of  whom  mothers  will  be  made,  I  have 
opened  to  me  a  gulf  of  barbarous  selfishness — a  scene 
of  gilded  meanness  and  misery — from  which  I  shrink 
back  heart-sick  and  disgusted.  Good  Heaven,  madam ! 
what  and  who  are  you  ?  Are  you  all  body  and  no 
soul  ?  Is  it  decent  business  for  a  decent  soul  to  be 
constantly  engaged — absorbingly  occupied — in  orna- 
menting and  showing  oif  for  the  gratification  of  per- 
sonal vanity  the  body  it  inhabits  ?  Do  you  realize  how 
low  you  are  fallen  ?  Do  you  realize  that  you  are 
come  to  the  small  and  indecent  business  of  getting  up 
your  person  to  be  looked  at,  admired,  praised, — that 
the  most  grateful  satisfactions  of  your  life  are  foimd 
in  this  business,  and  that  the  business  itself  is  but  a 
single  moral  remove  from  prostitution  ? 

If  I  have  succeeded  in  picturing  you  to  yourself,  per- 
haps you  will  be  prepared  to  follow  me  into  a  contem- 
plation of  a  few  of  the  natural  consequences  of  your  in- 
fatuation upon  your  character  and  liappiness.  WiU 
you  look  among  your  fashionable  female  acquaintances, 
and  find  one  who  is  making  any  intellectual  progress? 
The  thing  is  impossible.  There  is  nothing  more  con- 
ducive to  mental  growth  and  development  in  devotion 
to  the  keeping  and  dressing  of  the  person  of  a  woman, 
than  there  is  in  the  keeping  and  the  grooming  and 


harnessing  of  a  pet  horse.  Look  at  a  man  who  devotes 
himself  to  a  horse.  He  may  be  a  very  pleasant  fellow, 
and  ordinarily  intelligent,  hut  if  he  is  enamored  of 
his  animal,  and  gives  himself  np  to  his  care  and  ex- 
hibition, becoming  what  is  known  as  a  "  horse  man," 
that  ends  his  intellectual  development.  "When  horse 
gets  highest  in  any  man's  mind,  culture  ceases.  Noav, 
madam,  it  would  make  no  difference,  practically, 
whether  you  were  devoted  to  the  person  of  a  horse, 
or  the  person  of  a  pet  dog,  or  the  person  of  Mrs.  Royal 
Purple  Jones.  The  mind  that  engages  in  no  higher 
business,  or  that  finds  its  highest  delight  in  no  higher 
pursuit  than  that  of  grooming  and  disj^laying  a  beau- 
tiful body,  can  make  no  progress  into  a  nobler  life. 
Practically  you  will  find  this  the  case  everywhere. 
You  will  find  that  your  fashionable  friends  do  not 
grow  at  all.  They  move  along  in  the  same  old  ruts, 
prate  of  the  same  old  vanities,  go  the  same  old  rounds 
of  frivolity,  and  only  become  less  sprightly  and  agree- 
able as  the  years  pass  by.  Just  what  you  see  in  these 
people,  madam,  I  see  in  you. 

There  is  another  very  sad  result  which  comes  natu- 
rally from  this  devotion  to  your  own  person.  You 
are  already  grown  supremely  selfish.  You  have  per- 
mitted your  personal  vanity  to  control  you  so  long  that 
you  can  really  see  nothing  in  the  universe  but  your- 
self.    It  seems  proper  and  right  that  everybody  should 


To  Mrs,  Royal  Purple  Jones.         209 


serve  you.  Any  labor  that  would  soil  or  enlarge  your 
small  white  hands — any  toil  that  would  tax  the  powers 
of  your  petted  body — any  service  for  others  that  would 
draw  you  away  from  service  to  your  own  person — is 
shunned.  Your  mother,  your  sisters,  your  friends,  are 
all  laid  imder  tribute  to  you,  and  your  petulance  under 
denial  has  made  them  your  slaves.  Absorbed  by  these 
thoughts  of  yourself,  devoted  to  nothing  but  yourself, 
making  room  for  no  plans  which  do  not  relate  to  your- 
self, you  have  come  to  regard  yourself  as  the  world's 
pivotal  centre.  It  does  not  occur  to  you  at  all  that  the 
kind  people  around  you  can  have  any  interests  or  plans 
of  their  own  to  look  after.  All  the  fish  must  come  to 
your  net,  or  you  are  unhappy  ;  and  if  those  around  you 
are  not  made  unhappy  it  is  not  because  you  do  not  try 
to  make  them  so.  Sometimes  you  act  like  a  miserable, 
spoiled  baby,  and  then,  under  the  spur  of  jealousy,  you 
act  like  an  infuriated  brute.  The  tendency  to  this 
shameful  selfishness  is  natural  and  irresistible,  in  all 
who  devote  themselves,  as  you  have  done,  to  the  care 
and  exhibition  of  their  persons.  Others  may  cover  it 
from  sight  more  than  you  do,  by  a  more  cunning  art, 
but  it  is  there.  It  cannot  be  otherwise,  and  I  cannot 
conceive  of  a  type  of  selfishness  more  nearly  perfect 
than  that  which  the  character  of  ahnost  any  fashion- 
able woman  illustrates. 

There  is  still  another  result  which  naturally  flows 


210  Letters  to  the  Jonefes. 

from  supreme  devotion  to  the  person,  viz :  vulgarity. 
Madam,  I  look  anywhere  in  God's  world  for  genuine 
refinement  and  lady-like  instincts  and  manners  rather 
than  to   fashionable   society.       True   refinement   and 
gentle  manners  can  never  find  their  home  ui  any  so- 
ciety in  which  selfishness  reigns.     True  refinement  has 
brains.     True  refinement  has  a  heart.     True  refinement 
always  makes  room  in  the  world  for  others.     True  re- 
finement has  consideration   for  others.      True  refine- 
ment does  not  find  its  satisfactions  in  the  display  and 
adornment  of  the  body.     True  refinement  refuses  to 
be  governed  by  fashion,  having  within  itself  a  higher 
and  a  purer  law.     True  refinement  shrinks  from  con- 
spicuity  and  show.     True  refinement  engages  in  no  un- 
worthy and  unwomanly  rivalries.     You  know  that  the 
coarsest  words  you  ever  hear  from  the  lips  of  women 
— the  harshest,  meanest,  worst  things — the  lowest  ex- 
pressions— you  hear  from  the  lips  of  those  of  your 
own  set.     Yet  mark  the  impudent  hypocrisy  of  the 
thing.     You  and  your  set  assume  to  be  the  leaders  of 
society — the  ton — the  pattern  women  of  the  nation — 
so  far  refined  that  all  other  women  are  counted  vul- 
gar !     My  friend,  (if  you  are  not  by  this  time  become 
my  enemy,)  how  can  you  help  becoming  vulgar  when 
you  have  been  nothing  for  years  but  your  own  groom  ? 
How  can   you   help   becoming    low  when  you  have 
thought  of  nothing  for  years  but  your  own  person  ? 


You  are  vulgar.  All  your  pursuits  are  vulgar.  Your 
rivals  and  associates  are  vulgar,  and  your  ambitions 
are  as  vulgar  as  those  of  the  horse-jockey. 

I  would  not  be  misunderstood.  I  admire  a  well 
dressed  woman.  I  admire  a  beautiful  woman,  and  I 
thoroughly  approve  all  legitimate  efforts  to  render  the  . 
person  both  of  man  and  woman  agreeable.  Men  and 
women  owe  it  to  their  own  dignity  to  drape  their  per- 
sons becomingly  and  well,  and  they  can  do  this  with- 
out acquiring  an  absorbing  passion  for  dress,  or  giving 
any  more  than  the  necessary  amo\mt  of  thought  and 
time  to  it.  The  fact  is  that  a  woman  who  is  what  a 
woman  should  be  has  no  need  of  elaborate  personal 
ornament  to  make  her  attractive.  A  pure,  true  heart, 
a  self-forgetful  spirit,  an  innocent  delight  in  innocent 
society,  a  wish  and  an  effort  to  please,  ready  ministry 
to  the  wants  of  others,  graceful  accomplishments  wil- 
lingly used,  sprightliness  and  intelligence,  these  are 
passports  to  personal  power.  Relying  upon  these, 
there  is  no  woman  whose  person  is  simply  and  becom- 
ingly dressed  who  is  not  well  dressed.  "With  any  or 
all  of  these,  the  person  becomes  pleasing. 

As  I  write,  there  comes  to  my  memory  the  person 
of  a  woman  whom  everybody  loved  and  admired — 
the  most  thoroughly  popular  woman  I  ever  knew. 
She  was  welcomed  alike  in  fashionable  and  refined  so- 
ciety, and  behaved  herself  alike  in  both.     She  was  not 


212  Letters  to  the  Jonefes. 

beautiful,  but  she  was  charming.  She  never  orna- 
mented her  person,  but  she  was  always  well  dressed. 
A  simple,  well-fitted  gown,  and  hair  tastefully  dis- 
posed, were  all  one  could  see  of  any  effort  to  make  her 
person  pleasing,  and  these  seemed  to  be  forgotten,  and, 
.  I  believe,  were  forgotten,  the  moment  she  entered  so- 
ciety. When  friends  were  aroimd  her  she  had  no 
thought  but  of  them — no  desire  but  to  give  and  receive 
pleasure.  If  she  was  asked  to  sing  she  sang,  and,  if 
it  ministered  to  the  pleasure  of  others,  she  sang  pa- 
tiently, eveii  to  weariness.  She  was  as  intelligent  and 
stimulating  in  sober  conversation  as  she  was  playful  in 
spirit,  and  though  she  loved  general  society,  and  min- 
gled freely  in  it,  not  a  breath  of  slander  ever  sullied 
her  name,  and  not  an  emotion  was  ever  excited  by  her 
that  did  not  do  her  honor.  Every  man  admired  and 
honored  her,  and  every  woman — a  much  greater  mar- 
vel— spoke  in  her  praise.  Many  a  belle,  dressed  at  the 
height  of  fashion,  entered  her  presence  only  to  become 
insignificant.  Diamonds  were  forgotten  and  splendid 
dress  was  unmentioned,  while  her  sweet  presence,  her 
self-forgetful  devotion  to  the  pleasure  of  others,  and 
her  gentle  manners,  were  recalled  and  dwelt  upon  with 
unalloyed  delight. 

Madam,  I  have  been  painting  from  life.  I  have 
painted  you  from  life,  and  I  have  painted  this  friend 
from  life — a  friend  so  modest  and  so  unconscious  of  her 


charms  that  she  -would  weep  with  her  sense  of  imworthi- 
ness  if  she  were  told  that  I  had  attempted  to  paint  her. 
How  does  the  contrast  stiike  you  ?  Do  you  not  see 
that  you  are  a  slave  and  that  she  is  a  free  woman  ? 
Do  you  not  see  that  she  has  entered  into  the  eternal 
realities  of  things,  and  that  you  Are  engrossed  in 
ephemeral  nothingnesses  ?  Do  you  not  see  that  she  is  a 
refined  woman  and  that  you  are  a  coarse  one  ?  Do 
you  not  see  that  her  unselfish  devotion  to  the  happi- 
ness of  others  is  beautiful,  that  her  unconsciousness  of 
her  charms  is  beautiful,  that  her  simplicity  is  beauti- 
ful, and  that  your  selfishness  and  your  devotion  to 
dress  and  your  jealousy  and  your  rivalries  are  all  vul- 
gar and  ugly  and  hateful  ? 

It  is  complained  of  by  many  of  your  sex  that  men 
regard  woman  as  only  a  plaything — a  creature  to  be 
humored  and  petted  and  controlled,  and  indulged  in  as 
a  troublesome  luxury.  It  is  comjjlained  of  that  woman 
does  not  have  her  place  as  man's  equal — as  his  friend, 
companion,  and  partner.  Are  men  entirely  in  the 
blame  for  this  opinion,  to  the  limited  extent  in  which 
it  is  held  ?  Suppose  men  were  to  take  you  and  such 
as  are  like  you  as  the  subjects  of  their  study :  what 
would  be  their  conclusions  ?  Suppose  they  were  thor- 
oughly to  comprehend  your  devotion  to  your  own  per- 
son,— to  realize  the  absolute  absorption  of  all  your 
energies  and  all  your  time  by  the  frivolous  and  mean 


214  Letters  to  the  Jonefes. 

objects  that  inthrall  you — what  would  be  their  decis- 
ion ?  What  does  your  husband  think  about  it  ?  Ex- 
cuse me  for  mentioning  him,  madam.  I  am  aware  that 
he  occupies  a  very  small  share  of  your  attention,  but, 
really,  the  man  who  finds  you  in  money  has  a  right  to 
an  opinion  upon  this  point.  You  do  not  care  what  his 
opinion  is  ?  I  thought  so.  You  have  ceased  to  love 
him,  and  he  has  ceased  to  oppose  you.  It  is  impossible 
for  your  husband  to  love  you.  It  is  impossible  for  any 
man  either  to  love  or  to  honor  a  woman  so  selfish  as 
you  are  ;  and  your  sex  may  blame  you  and  those  who 
are  like  you  for  all  the  contempt  which  a  certain  class 
of  men  feel  for  women.  You  degrade  yourself  to 
the  position  of  a  showy  creature,  good  for  nothing 
but  to  spend  money.  You  teach  men  contempt  for 
your  sex,  and  it  is  only  the  modest  and  intelligent 
women  whom  you  despise  that  redeem  it  to  admira- 
tion and  love. 


THE    FIFTEENTH    LETTER. 

€a  piss  ^dicm  '§tmnns  lottts. 

COXCERNTKG  HER  STRONG  DESIRE  TO  BECOME  AN 
AUTHORESS. 

WHiL  you  permit  me  to  reply  publicly  to  the  pri- 
vate letter  in  which  you  have  informed  me 
of  your  strong  desire  to  engage  in  literary  labor,  as  a 
fonn  of  self-expression  which  embraces  all  your  am- 
bition and  all  your  wish  to  do  good  ?  Had  yours  been 
the  first  letter  of  the  kind  that  had  reached  my  hand,  I 
should  not  have  ventured  to  treat  your  case  publicly ; 
but  I  have  received  a  hundred  such,  and  many  of  these 
came  to  me  so  reluctantly — after  such  a  struggle  with 
inclination — that  I  am  convinced  that  you  are  only  one 
of  a  class  which  numbers  its  thousands  in  every  part 
of  the  country.  Indeed,  the  world  is  full  of  women 
whose  unsatisfied  lives  and  whose  overflowing  natures 
fill  them  with  suggestions  of  ideal  good,  to  be  won  in 


216  Letters  to  the  Jonefes. 

some  field  of  art.  If  these  women  could  use  the  pencil 
or  the  chisel,  many  of  them  would  be  artists,  or  would 
try  to  be  artists  ;  but  the  pen  is  the  only  instrument 
of  expression  with  which  their  fingers  are  familiar,  and 
they  come  to  regard  it  as  their  only  resort.  I  have  a 
deep  sympathy  with  this  desire  to  write,  and  I  am  sure 
that  you  will  receive  what  I  have  to  say  to  you  as  the 
words  of  a  friend. 

You  have  a  strong  desire  to  write,  you  tell  me. 
Well,  this  desire  to  write  may  be  associated  with  the 
power  to  succeed  as  a  writer,  or  it  may  not.  The  de- 
sire to  write  is  not  even  prima  facie  evidence  of  fit- 
ness for  writing.  This  desire,  as  I  have  already  inti- 
mated to  you,  is  quite  universal.  One  of  the  strangest 
anomalies  of  human  nature  is  exhibited  in  the  general 
desire  to  do  those  things  which  are  the  most  difficult 
to  do.  A  little  man  desires  to  do  the  work  of  a  large 
man,  and  a  large  man  desires  to  be  thought  nimble. 
A  man  of  slender  limb  desu*es  to  be  an  athlete.  It  is 
very  common  for  men  to  have  a  strong  desire  to  sing 
or  to  play  upon  a  musical  instrument  who  could  not 
sing  or  play  with  a  century's  practice,  because  they 
have  neither  voice  nor  ear.  I  suj^pose  that  nine  out  of 
ten  of  the  students  in  our  colleges  have  a  strong  desire 
to  be  orators,  and  you  know  how  much,  or  how  little, 
the  desire  amounts  to.  Most  probably  the  student  who 
has  the  least  desire  to  be.  an  orator  of  any  one  in  his 


To  Mifs  Felicia  Hemans  Jones.       217 

class  is  the  one  who  is  most  certain  to  become  one ; 
and  perhaps  you  will  readily  see  that  he  who  is  con- 
scious of  possessing  the  orator's  native  power  has  least 
occasion  to  desire  it.  Of  the  great  multitude  Avho 
^\rite,  you  know  that  only  a  few  succeed.  Nine  out 
of  every  ten  fail — perhaps  even  a  larger  proportion 
than  this.  A  very  few  of  these  fail,  doubtless,  through 
no  real  fault  of  their  own,  but  through  unfavorable 
circumstances  ;  while  the  most  of  them  find  to  their 
mortification  and  their  cost  that  their  desire  to  write 
misled  them  entirely  with  regard  to  the  work  which 
nature  intended  them  to  do.  So  you  see  that  I  do  not 
think  much  of  desire  as  a  guide  to  one's  work  in  the 
world.  Indeed,  I  think  it  the  most  imreliable  index 
ever  consulted. 

I  think  I  understand  the  process  through  which 
your  mind  is  constantly  passing.  You  take  up  a  book, 
from  the  pen  of  a  favorite  author,  and  you  are  refreshed 
and  nourished  and  inspired  by  it.  You  are  exalted  by 
this  communion  with  a  highly  vitalized  and  fruitful 
mind,  and  feel  yourself  longing  for  action  and  expres- 
sion of  some  kind.  It  is  the  most  natural  thing  in  the 
world  for  you  to  desire,  before  everything  else,  to  be  a 
writer.  You  admire  the  author  Avho  has  inspired  you. 
You  imagine  that  the  mind  that  has  within  it  the 
power  to  work  such  marvels  upon  you  must  be  a  su- 
premely happy  mind.      His  jjosition  of  power  seems 

10 


218  Letters  to  the  Jonefes. 

very  enviable  to  you, — if  not  enviable,  very  desirable. 
The  results  of  his  efforts  upon  you  are  so  good  and  so 
wonderful  that  it  seems  to  you  as  if  it  must  be  a  glo- 
rious thing  to  Tvork  them.  You  long  to  do  for  others 
what  he  has  done  for  you.  You  long  to  be  regarded 
with  love  and  admiration  as  an  inspirer.  This  is  the 
same  feeling  that  is  excited  in  a  sensitive  mind  by 
public  speakers.  Thousands  of  very  commonplace  men 
are  excited  by  oratorical. efforts  in  the  pulpit  and  on  the 
platform,  to  a  strong  desire  to  become  public  speakers. 
The  desire  to  be  preachers,  or  orators,  or  lecturers,  or 
public  debaters,  is  always  excited  in  some  minds  by 
listening  to  the  diffei*ent  varieties  of  public  sjjeaking, 
yet  the  most  of  these  need  only  to  try  once  to  become 
convinced  that  desire  is  a  very  poor  index  to  power. 

This  desire  to  write  is  intimately  connected  with — 
perhaps  it  is  one  of  the  expressions  of— the  longing 
natural  to  every  heart  to  be  recognized.  The  heart 
that  loves  men,  and  is  conscious  of  the  wish  and  the 
power  to  bless  them,  longs  for  the  recognition  of  men. 
All  of  us  who  are  good  for  anything  have  this  longing. 
We  long  for  the  recognition  of  our  real  value  ;  we  long 
for  a  place  in  the  respect  and  the  love  of  those  around 
us.  It  is  not  unfrequently  true  that  those  whose  affec- 
tions have  been  unsatisfied  at  home — whose  plans  of 
domestic  life  have  miscarried — or  who  are  immediately 
surrounded  bv  those  who  will  not,  or  who  cannot  svm- 


To  Mifs  Felicia  Hemans  Jones.       219 

pathize  with  them — who  are  every  day  associated  with 
those  by  whom  they  are  undervahied — turn  to  the 
public  for  that  which  has  been  denied  them  at  home. 
I  do  not  know  Avhether  I  hit  your  case  in  these  remarks 
or  not,  but  I  shouhl  think  it  strange  if  I  did  not.  It 
is  not  common  for  a  woman  who  is  satisfied  in  her 
alFections,  who  is  surrounded  by  sympathetic  friends, 
and  who  holds  a  good  position  securely,  to  care  for,  or 
even  to  think  of  recognition  beyond.  On  the  other 
hand,  it  is  very  common  for  women  whose  domestic 
surroundings  and  society  are  not  satisfying  to  look  to 
other  fields  for  recognition,  and  to  none  so  commonly 
as  to  that  of  authorship. 

In  your  letter  to  me,  you  sj^eak  of  your  wish  to 
do  good  by  writing.  I  do  not  question  the  sincerity 
of  tliis  wish.  It  may  flow  from  the  benevolence  of 
your  nature,  developed  by  Christian  culture,  or  it 
may  have  been  inspired  by  the  consciousness  of 
good  received  from  the  writings  of  others.  But 
you  must  remember  that  one's  motives  may  be  very 
good  while  one's  native  gifts  may  be  but  poorly 
adapted  to  literary  eftbrt.  Your  motives  decide  noth- 
ing as  to  your  power.  That  you  may  readily  see, 
by  looking  at  the  pulpit,  filled  by  men  whose  motives 
are  excellent,  while  the  power  of  one  half  of  them  has 
never  found  demonstration,  and  never  will.  I  ha^e 
sometimes  thought  that  there  were  no  preachers  in  the 


220  Letters  to  the  Jonefes. 

field  who  more  uniformly  have  the  noblest  motives  and 
the  most  charming  Christian  spirit  than  those  who 
have  not  the  slightest  poAver  in  the  pulpit.  No  person 
should  write  without  good  motives,  but  good  motives 
alone  never  made  a  good  book.  Goodish  books  are 
written  in  great  numbers  by  people  who  write  with 
good  motives  and  incompetent  brains,  but  I  suppose 
you  do  not  care  to  write  such  books  as  these. 

I  have  made  these  remarks,  not  to  prove  to  you 
that  you  are  incompetent  to  write  a  book,  and  not  for 
the  purpose  of  making  you  believe  that  you  are  incom- 
petent. I  have  made  them  for  the  simple  purpose  of 
showing  you  that  your  strong  desire  to  write,  even 
when  backed  by  the  purest  and  most  benevolent  mo- 
tives, is  no  evidence  that  you  can  succeed.  The  world 
is  fall  of  the  desire  to  do  good  and  great  things,  and  it 
is  not  lacking  in  Avorthy  motives.  You  are  not  pe- 
culiar in  these  things.  You  share  them  to  a  greater 
extent  than  you  suspect  Avith  your  neighbors.  You 
Avould  probably  be  astonished  to  leai'n  how  many  there 
are  among  your  immediate  friends  who  have  been 
moved  by  the  same  desires  that  move  you,  yet  you 
may  be  able  to  see  that  not  one  of  them  could  succeed 
as  a  Avriter.  There  may  be  one  among  your  friends, 
too,  Avho  has  not  had  any  desires  about  the  matter,  but 
who  has  written  by  a  sort  of  natural  necessity,  Avith- 
out  recognition  or  publication.     What  do  you  think 


of  such  a  "man  as  Theodore  Winthrop,  who  wrote  quite 
a  little  library  of  books  that  could  find  no  publisher 
until  he  was  killed,  and  that  have  now  made  him  fa- 
mous ?  Such  a  rnan  writes  because  it  is  a  necessity  of 
his  nature  to  write,  and  I  venture  to  say  that  he  never 
sought  advice  on  the  subject.  He  certainly  was  not 
checked  in  production  because  the  publishers  would  not 
print  his  books,  and  the  public  could  not  read  them. 
Still,  it  is  possible  that  you  have  jTist  the  native  gifts 
that  Avould  command  success  in  authorship,  though  I 
wish  you  to  feel  that  the  probabilities  are  against  you, 
and  to  open  your  eyes  to  these  probabilities. 

"We  will  suppose  that  you  have  those  native  gifts 
which,  under  favorable  conditions,  Avould  enable  you 
to  succeed,  and  we  shall  still  have  these  conditions  to 
look  after.  The  first  of  these  is  the  possession  of 
something  of  genuine  value  to  comraimicate.  Your 
power  of  expression  may  be  unsurpassed,  and  your 
style  may  be  exceedingly  attractive,  but  unless  you 
have  something  of  value  to  convey,  these  will  avail  you 
nothing.  What  have  you  of  knowledge  or  Avisdom  to 
give  to  mankind  ?  How  much  have  you  thought  and 
felt  and  lived  ?  How  much  more  have  you  thouglit 
and  felt  and  lived  than  those  for  whom  you  wish  to 
write  ?  Do  you,  in  your  character  and  in  the  general 
results  of  your  life,  stand  so  far  above  the  mass  of 
mind  around  you,  as  to  be  able  to  inspire  it  and  to 


222  Letters  to  the  Jonefes.  . 

lead  it  to  liigher  ground  ?  This  question  has  a  great 
deal  more  to  do  with  your  success  in  authorship  than 
that  which  relates  to  the  desire  to  write.  This  touches 
the  vitalities  of  the  matter.  Have  you  knowledge 
which  the  world  has  not,  and  which  the  world  needs  ? 
Has  your  life  led  you  through  such  paths  of  expe- 
rience and  observation  that  you  feel  qualified  to  lead 
or  direct  others  ? 

Another  essential  condition  to  success  in  authorship 
is  time.  To  write  a  brief  poem,  or  a  clever  little  essay 
for  a  magazine  or  a  newspaper,  it  does  not  require 
much  time.  You  can  do  this  in  the  intervals  of  domes- 
tic labor,  and  it  would  be  rather  a  help  than  a  hinder- 
ance  to  labor.  It  would  be  quite  likely  to  sweeten 
labor,  and  give  significance  to  leisure,  to  have  on  hand 
the  work  of  embodying  in  some  good  or  graceful  form 
some  good  or  graceful  thought  for  other  eyes,  but  this 
would  be  playing  at  authorship.  To  succeed  in  a  field 
which  numbers  among  its  competitors  the  brightest 
and  best  minds  of  the  world — minds  which  devote  all 
their  time  to  their  Avork — involves  the  entire  devotion 
of  one's  time  to  the  efibrt.  Success  in  authorship  can- 
not be  won  without  time.  The  man  who  gains  the  ear 
of  the  world  by  the  labor  of  ten  years  may  be  ac- 
counted fortunate.  It  is  possible  that  an  author  may 
write  a  book  very  early  in  life  which  will  be  read,  but 
it  will  be  forgotten  within  a  shorter  time  than  he 


To  Mifs  Felicia  Henians  Jones.       223 

occupied  in  writing  it.  A  book  lives  by  its  value — 
by  the  amount  of  genuine  life,  or  food  for  life,  which 
it  contains  ;  and  it  takes  time  to  collect  this.  Defoe, 
the  author  of  "  Robinson  Crusoe,"  was  also  the  author 
of  more  than  two  hundred  other  works,  and  it  is  more 
than  likely  that  you  never  heard  of  any  of  his  books 
except  this  that  I  have  named.  Yet  this  book  was 
among  his  last.  It  was  written  after  many  years  of 
authorship — the  only  book  of  all  his  life  that  had  vi- 
tality enough  in  it  to  survive  him.  It  took  nearly 
sixty  years  of  life,  and  more  than  thirty  years  of  au- 
thorship, to  bring  him  where  he  could  write  Robinson 
Crusoe.  Mr.  Motley,  the  now  celebrated  historiau, 
began  early  as  a  novelist,  and  his  book  failed  so  signally 
that  when  he  emerged  from  his  obscurity  as  a  histo- 
rian, nobody  remembered  the  novel.  Where  do  you 
suppose  Mr.  Motley  spent  the  ten  years,  more  or  less, 
that  divided  the  issues  of  the  novel  and  the  history  ? 
He  spent  them  in  his  study,  at  his  desk,  in  patient 
labor,  giving  to  his  project  the  very  best  years  of  his 
life. 

Now  will  you  ask  yourself  whether  you  have  time 
to  give  to  a  life  like  this  ?  Do  you  realize  how  much  of 
sacrifice  it  involves  ? — sacrifice  of  health  and  society  and 
domestic  pleasures  ?  Are  your  plainly  indicated  do- 
mestic duties  such  as  to  permit  you  to  devote  yourself 
to  a  life  like  this  ?     Is  the  time  that  it  would  absorb, 


224  Letters  to  the  Joneies. 


so  entirely  at  jowr  disposal,  through  abundance  of 
means  for  your  support,  that  you  could  aftbrd  to  run 
the  risks  of  authorship  ?  This  question  of  time  is  a 
very  imi3ortant  one  to  a  person  who  is  poor.  A  writer 
may  devote  one  or  two  years  to  writing  a  good  book, 
and  then  look  one  or  two  years  for  a  publisher,  for  the 
best  books  by  new  authors  have  notoriously  begged 
for  publishers.  "  Waverley  "  and  "  Uncle  Tom's  Cabin  " 
and  "  Jane  Eyre "  were  all  beggars  for  publishers. 
You  would  not  be  apt  to  have  a  better  fate.  But  sup- 
pose, after  the  usual  working  and  waiting,  you  were  to 
obtain  a  publisher.  Then  he  waits  for  the  proper  time 
to  bring  out  your  book.  It  may  be  three  months ;  it 
may  be  a  year.  Six  months  after  the  day  of  publica- 
tion he  will  give  you  a  note  for  whatever  may  be  due 
you  for  copjTight,  payable  in  four  or  six  months  from 
its  date.  Do  you  think  that  this  is  an  exaggeration  ? 
Every  author  knows  it  is  not.  It  is  the  simple  truth, 
and  many  of  them  know  that  when  the  day  of  settle- 
ment has  come,  their  copyright  has  amounted  to  noth- 
ing ;  or  they  have  found  that  their  note,  when  they 
were  fortunate  enough  to  get  one,  has  not  been  paid 
at  maturity,  on  account  of  the  failure  of  its  maker.  A 
man  must  be  rich  and  independent  or  poor  and  des- 
perate, to  afford  to  write  a  first  book.  There  "are 
hardly  ten  persons  among  the  thirty  millions  of  Ameri- 
ca who  rely  on  the  writing  of  books  for  a  liWng,  and 


To  Mifs  Felicia  Hemans  Jones.       225 

the  most  of  those  have  a  hard  task  of  it.  There  is  but 
one  way  in  which  a  person  who  is  dependent  upon  his 
labor  for  a  li'sdng  can  write  a  book,  and  that  is  to  write 
it  in  the  intervals  of  labor,  which  labor  is  devoted  to 
the  simple  purpose  of  getting  a  living.  You  will 
readily  see  that  a  writer  thus  engaged  is  at  work  very 
disadvantageously. 

Another  condition  of  successful  writing  is  patience. 
A  man  furnished  with  all  the  necessary  means  of  sup- 
port, and  impelled  to  write  by  the  desire  which  moves 
you,  and  by  your  wish  to  do  good,  will  find  that,  after 
the  labor  of  a  few  weeks,  the  desire  dies  out.  The 
imptilse  to  write,  born  of  the  inspiration  of  the  books 
Avhich  one  reads,  is  very  fiery  and  very  fine  at  the  first, 
but  it  is  hard  to  stretch  it  over  a  period  of  six  months 
or  a  year,  through  weariness,  and  headache,  and  con- 
finement, and  doubt  as  to  the  result,  and  disgust  with 
the  failure  to  satisfy  one's  own  taste  and  judgment. 
The  man  or  the  woman  who  writes  on,  after  the  origi- 
nal inspiration  has  lost  its  impulse — labors  on  in  the 
drudgery  of  detail — in  polishing,  trimmhig,  rewiiting 
— comes  at  last  to  an  irksome  task,  and  is  only  sus- 
tained in  it  by  a  self-sujiported  determination.  A  fresh 
interest  will  sustain  labor,  but  when  a  book  has  been 
fully  constructed  in  the  mind,  and  realized  in  the  imagi- 
nation, and  nothing  remains  but  the  labor  of  writing 
a  limited  amount  from  day  to  day  for  many  months, 

10* 


226  Letters  to  the  Jonefes. 

all  of  which  writing  must  be  done  before  one  can  get 
any  sympathy  from  others,  it  takes  a  will  as  patient 
and  ixnyielding  as  that  which  a  besieging  army  needs 
before  a  fortress  that  is  to  be  approached  by  inches. 
Do  you  possess  this  patience — this  persistence — this 
adamantine  will — which  will  stand  and  command  and 
do  after  desire  and  inspiration  are  gone,  and  even  the 
motive  of  doing  good  has  been  discouraged  ? 

I  have  thus  attempted  to  show  you  how  easily  you 
may  be  misled  as  to  your  abilities  by  your  desires,  and 
what  the  conditions  of  successful  writing  must  be,  ad- 
mitting that  your  abilities  are  all  that  you  suppose  them 
to  be.  I  have  exaggerated  nothing,  but  tried  to  -give 
you  a  foithful  survey  of  the  ground,  so  that  if  you  still 
feel  impelled  to  undertake  writing,  you  may  approach 
your  task  with  a  good  understanding  of  its  dilBculties. 
If  I  were  intent  on  discouraging  you — if  that  were  my 
motive  at  all — I  might  go  further,  and  speak  of  Avhat 
are  supposed  to  be  the  "  satisfactions  "  of  authorship'. 
I  might  tell  you  that  the  article  which  so  inspired  you 
probably  left  the  author  a  disgusted  man.  It  is  more 
than  probable  that  the  books  which  have  pleased  and 
strengthened  you  most,  are,  at  tliis  very  moment,  re- 
garded by  the  writer  as  unworthy  of  him,  and  alto- 
gether unworthy  of  the  purpose  to  which  they  were 
addressed.  I  might  tell  you  of  the  incompetent  criti- 
cism, the  mean  personal  attacks,  the  careless  condem- 


To  Mifs  Felicia  Hemans  Jones.       227 

nations,  and  worst  of  all,  the  undiscriminating  praises 
which  are  every  successful  author's  lot.  But  as  you  do 
not  propose  to  write  to  please  yourself,  and  are  actuated 
solely  by  the  desire  to  do  good,  the  effort  would  be 
irrelevant.  It  would  be  very  painful  to  me  to  feel  that 
I  had  dissuaded  any  man  or  woman  from  a  legitimate 
career,  or  to  know  that  I  had  turned  aside  any  mind  from 
a  walk  of  usefulness  ;  but  I  cannot  but  believe  that 
talk  like  this  will  save  ten  from  failure  for  every  one 
whom  it  will  deter  from  success.  There  are  many  men 
and  women  who  are  always  unsettled  upon  this  matter. 
They  feel  that  they  suffer  hardsliip  from  circumstances 
which  prevent  them  from  writing.  I  cannot  but  be- 
lieve that  an  intelligent  survey  of  the  difficulties  of 
authorship,  and  a  comprehension  of  the  fallibility  of 
the  signs  of  power  to  succeed,  usually  relied  upon,  will 
settle  this  question  forever  in  their  minds.  It  is  one 
of  the  curses  of  life  to  feel  that  we  are  out  of  place, 
and  to  feel  that  we  might  be  doing  something  better 
than  that  which  engages  our  powers.  The  world  is 
full  of  the  unsatisfied,  multitudes  of  whom,  I  believe, 
turn  their  eyes  to  the  field  of  authorship  with  desire, 
and  with  more  or  less  of  conviction  that  there  are  suc- 
cess and  satisfaction  in  it  for  them.  These  people  will 
never  write,  but  they  will  always  be  thinking  about 
it ;  and  they  need  something  to  turn  them  back  upon 
their  legitimate  field  for  the  satisfactions  which  they 

9 


228  Letters  to  the  Jonefes. 

seek.  I  believe  this  letter  M'ill  hare  an  influence  on 
your  mind,  as  well  as  on  theirs.  Of  this,  I  feel  meas- 
urably certain :  if  you  were  born  for  an  authoress,  you 
will  iiud  that  within  you  which  will  set  all  my  wisdom 
aside,  and  push  on.  There  is  a  consciousness  of  power 
and  a  faith  in  success  which  I  cannot  define,  but  before 
which  I  bow ;  and  if  you  have  these — Heaven  im- 
parted— I  bid  you  God  speed.  But  do  not,  I  beg  you, 
mistake  a  simple  desire  to  write,  which  you  share  in 
common  with  thousands,  for  the  divine  impulse  to 
which  I  allude. 


THE    SIXTEENTH    LETTER. 

(To  Itl^u  |oms. 

COXCERNING  THE  CHAR  ACT  Eli  AND  TENDEXCJES  OF  THE 
FAST  LIFE  Wnicn  HE  IS  LIVING. 

I  HAVE  been  watching  you  with  painful  solicitude 
for  the  last  five  years.  You  were  originally  what 
people  call  a  wild  boy,  with  no  particular  vices,  but 
with  strong  passions  and  a  great  overflow  of  animal 
spirits.  You  came  into  manhood  with  a  cigar  in  your 
mouth  and  a  reputation  for  "  spreeing,"  in  both  of 
which  you  apparently  took  a  proud  delight.  You 
abused  every  horse  that  you  had  the  opjwrtunity  of 
driving,  and  particularly  afiected  a  dashing  turn-out. 
You  liked  the  society  of  sporting  men,  and  took  natu- 
rally to  their  ways  and  their  morals.  You  cut  loose  from 
the  influence  of  the  Christian  friends  around  you,  and 
broke  the  Sabbath,  and  frequented  the  haunts  of  vice, 
and  engaged  in  scenes  of  dissipation,  and  laughed  at 


230  Letters  to  the  Jonefes. 

those  who  yielded  themselves  to  the  control  of  con- 
science. You  are  a  good-natured  person  enough,  but 
you  are  wicked,  and  while  you  maintain  a  place  in 
respectable  society,  you  are  regarded  with  fear  by  the 
good  and  with  suspicion  by  all.  It  is  understood 
among  the  women  that  you  are  not  a  pure  man,  and 
it  is  known,  by  some  of  them,  that  you  have  abused 
the  confidence  of  more  than  one.  All  of  your  friends 
have  heard  sad  reports  of  your  sins  when  beyond  their 
sight,  and  all  regard  you  as  a  ruined  man. 

I  wish  to  call  your  attention  particularly  to  this 
point,  viz :  that  the  community  regard  you  as  a  ruined 
man  already.  You  do  not  imagine  this  to  be  the  case, 
at  all.  You  have  no  idea  that  you  are  ruined,  or  that 
you  are  to  be  ruined.  You  are  not  aware  that  you 
have  the  reputation  of  being  ruined.  Now  permit  me 
to  set  you  before  yourself. 

You  are  not  under  the  control  of  principle,  in  the 
slightest  degree.  You  have  some  notions  of  honor, 
but  they  are  entirely  conventional.  They  would  not 
keep  you  from  breaking  your  pledge  to  a  woman,  or 
breaking  her  heart,  and  I  say,  therefore,  that  you  have 
no  principle — not  even  the  principle  of  personal  honor 
which  you  doubtless  suppose  you  have.  There  is, 
thus,  nothing  to  restrain  you  from  the  most  imscrupu- 
lous  means  for  securing  your  personal  ends,  and  noth- 
ing to  stand  between  you  and  the  gratification  of  your 


To  Jehu  Jones.  231 

sensual  desires,  except  the  law.  Now  will  you  not 
decide  for  yourself  how  far  a  man  in  this  position  is 
from  ruin  ?  Do  you  imagine  that  you  are,  to  any  ex- 
tent, under  the  control  of  principle  ?  Does  principle 
restrain  you  from  indulgence  in  strong  drink  ?  Does 
principle  withhold  you  from  association  with  lewd 
women  ?  Does  principle  forbid  your  use  of  the  pro- 
fane oath  or  the  obscene  jest  ?  You  know  it  does  none 
of  these  things.  Then  why  do  you  fancy  that  you  are 
controlled  by  principle  ?  Why  do  you  fancy  that  there 
is  anything  within  you  to  keep  you  from  moral  ruin  ? 
If  you  are  not  ruined  to-day,  you  are  pretty  certain  to 
be  very  soon,  because  salvation  involves  reformation, 
at  which  you  scoff. 

Lot  me  ask  you  to  look  around  you,  and  see  what 
those  have  come  to  who  began  where  you  have  begim. 
There  goes  your  neighbor  with  a  blotched  and  burning 
face  and  a  stuffed  skin,  whose  drink  will  just  as  cer- 
tainly kill  him  as  if  it  were  arsenic.  He  stood  once 
where  you  stand  to-day.  He  did  not  dream,  ten  years 
ago,  that  he  was  ruined  ;  but  he  has  taken  no  new  step 
to  bring  him  where  he  now  stands.  He  only  continued 
to  do  what  he  was  already  doing.  There  was  no  prin- 
ciple to  stand  between  him  and  destruction.  He  drank 
with  his  friends  occasionally,  then  he  drank  with  them 
habitually,  then  he  drank  alone  to  gratify  a  thirst 
which  drink  had  created,  and  which  will  never  die 


232 


Letters  to  the  Jonefes. 


while  his  vitiated  body  lives.  Look  at  that  other 
neighbor  of  yours,  with  a  dark  red  skin  and  a  troubled 
eye,  who  knows  where  he  is  going.  It  is  not  ten  years 
since  he  was  not  even  suspected  of  drinking,  but  it 
came  out  that  he  had  learned  in  secret  to  love  hot 
liquors,  and  that  he  had  set  his  heart  against  reform. 
That  man  is  in  the  straight  road  to  hell  and  he  knows 
it,  and  you,  on  the  same  road,  stop  at  the  wayside  re- 
sorts and  drink  with  him.  Delirium  tremens  waits  for 
that  man  and  is  sure  of  him.  Look  at  that  little  circle 
of  neighbors  younger  than  those  to  whom  I  have  called 
your  attention.  Do  you  see  how  they  are  changing  ? 
Do  you  not  see  that  they  are  gi'owing  preternaturally 
heavy,  and  that  they  are  becoming  more  habitual  in 
their  visits  to  the  dram-shop  and  in  the  indulgence  in 
drink  at  home  ?  Have  you  any  doubt  as  to  where 
they  will  be  in  the  course  of  ten  years  more  ? 

Having  looked  at  these,  suppose  you  go  with  me  to 
visit  certain  others  who  have  arrived  at  the  close  of 
their  journey.  There  sits  one  in  his  doorway — a  mis- 
erable wreck,  filled  with  gouty  pains,  unable  even  to 
taste  of  the  liquor  which  has  destroyed  him,  and  loath- 
ing the  food  which  he  has  no  power  to  digest.  There 
writhes  another  in  tonnent — in  a  delirium  whose  hor- 
rors are  beyond  conception,  as  they  are  beyond  de- 
scription. There  sits  another  in  the  sun,  from  whom 
the  flesh  has  all  fallen  away — who  is  left  feeble  and  flac- 


To  Jehu  Jones.  233 


cicl  and  foolish — a  poor,  broken-down,  diseased  wretch, 
beyond  the  reach  of  help.  There  sinks  another  in  par- 
alysis, a  helpless  mass  of  bloated  flesh. 

What  do  you  think  of  these  men,  Mr.  Jehu  Jones  ? 
Does  it  seem  as  if  that  handsome  face  and  those 
shapely  limbs  erf  yours  could  ever  arrive  at  such  degra- 
dation ?  You  have  only  to  keep  along  in  the  track 
which  you  noAV  follow,  with  no  fears  and  no  compunc- 
tion of  conscience,  to  pass  through  the  various  stages 
of  ruin  which  these  men  have  presented  to  you.  There 
is  but  one  end  to  a  life  of  drink,  and  that  is  hell.  It 
matters  little  whether  the  popular  doctrine  of  future 
torment  be  admitted  or  not  to  make  my  statement 
good.  A  body  long  abused  by  drink  becomes  all  that 
we  can  conceive  of  as  hell.  It  is  the  dwelling-place 
of  torment — the  home  of  horror.  You  see  these  men 
on  their  way  to  ruin.  You  know  just  where  they  are 
going,  and  I  see  you  are  going  on  the  same  road,  to 
the  same  end.  Tell  me  whether  you  do  not  love  drink 
better  to-day  that  you  did  five  years  ago.  Tell  me 
whether  it  does  not  take  more  drink  to  satisfy  you 
than  it  did  five  years  ago.  Tell  me  whether  you  are 
not  drinking  oftener  than  you  did  even  two  years  ago. 
Tell  me  whether  you  do  not  think  of  it  oftener  when 
away  from  it  than  you  did  one  year  ago.  Tell  me 
whether  your  conscience  reproves  you  at  all,  and 
whether,  under  the  accumulating  evidences  of  your 


234  Letters  to  the  Jonefes. 


essential  ruin,  you  have  felt  the  smallest  alarm  as  to 
what  may  be  the  result  of  your  indulgence.      I  see 
what  you  do  not  see — that  you  have  acquired  an  appe- 
tite for  liquor.     You  used  to  drink  it  only  when  on  a 
frolic  ;  now  you  drink  it  every  day.     Now  let  me  tell 
you  what  all  observation  and  experience  teach — that 
you  i\dll  love  it  more  and  more  as  the  years  pass  away, 
and  will  be  less  and  less  inclined  to  relinquish  its  use. 
Why  should  I  not  speak  of  you  then  as  a  ruined  man  ? 
There  is  another  element  that  enters  into  your  ruin. 
You  have,  for  the  past  five  years,  consorted  with  ruined 
women.   When  you  were  younger,  evil  companions  and 
evil  desires  and  curiosity  led  you  into  their  society. 
There  were  certain  things  in  that  society  that  disgusted 
you  then.     To-day  you  are  at  home  in  it.     Sir,  you  are 
a  beast.     You  delight  in  the  company  of  women  who 
shame  the  names  of  mother,  sister  and  wife — of  pros- 
titutes who  sell  for  gold  that  which,  in  God's  pure 
economy,  is  sacred  to  love — of  women  whose  touch  is 
pollution  and  whose  hold  upon  you  is  danmation.     Oh 
Heaven  !     Wlien  I  think  of  the  young  life  aroimd  me 
that  is  permitting  its  feet  to  be  directed  into  these 
terrible  paths  of  sin — when  I  consider  how  seductive 
these  paths  are  to  youthful  appetite  and  passion — when 
I  remember  how  opportunity  invites  from  ten  thousand 
hiding-places — and  when  I  realize  that  there  is  no  vice 
which  so  deadens  or  destroys  the  moral  sense  as  that 


To  Jehu  Jones.  235 

of  licentiousness,  I  am  sick  and  almost  in  despair.  You 
are  old  in  this  vice,  but  there  are  those  around  me  who 
are  young  in  it,  as  you  were  once — boys,  whose  feet 
hang  upon  the  verge  of  a  precipice  more  fearful  than 
death — young  men — with  Christian  mothers  and  pure 
sisters — whose  characters  are  as  base  as  their  bodies 
are  diseased.  Do  you  shrink  from  this  vice,  and  from 
the  society  which  it  involves  ?  Are  you  not  in  love 
with  it — so  much  in  love  with  it  that  you  do  not  enjoy 
the  society  of  pure  women  ?  Are  you  not  so  much  in 
love  with  it  that  the  society  of  pure  women  only  brings 
to  you  shameful  suggestions  ?  And  yet,  you  think  you 
are  not  ruined !  Sir,  you  are  rotten.  If  mind  were 
subject  to  the  laws  of  matter,  and  moral  corruption 
were  accompanied  by  the  phenomena  which  character- 
ize physical  decay,  you  would  stink  like  carrion. 

I  have  no  words  with  which  to  express  my  sense 
of  the  ruin  which  this  single  vice  has  wrought  in  you. 
Men  who  drink  are  sometimes  reformed,  and  if  they 
have  not  proceeded  too  far  in  their  vice,  they  come 
back  to  a  self-respectful  manhood.  The  taint  left  upon 
the  morals  is  not  so  deep  that  it  cannot  be  eradicated  ; 
but  a  man  who  has  been  debauched  by  licentiousness, 
is  incurable.  I  do  not  mean  that  he  cannot  reform, 
but  that  he  must  always  be  weak,  and  must  always 
carry  with  him  a  sense  of  degradation  and  shame. 

Do  you  persist  in  believing  that  you  are  not  ruined  ? 


236  Letters  to  the  Jonefes. 

There  is,  of  course,  one  aspect  of  your  case  in  which 
you  are  not.  It  is  possible  for  you  to  reform,  but 
you  have  no  idea  of  reforming.  You  base  no  hopes  or 
calculations  on  reformation.  That  is  why  I  declare 
you  to  be  ruined.  You  voluntarily  block  up  the  only 
way  of  escape  from  ruin.  If  a  man,  loving  your  wel- 
fare, speaks  to  you  of  reformation,  you  are  angry  with 
hira.  If  he  ventures  to  reprove  you  for  your  vices, 
you  bid  him  mind  his  own  business.  You  brace  your- 
self against  every  influence  which  is  intended  to  reform 
you.  You  join  hands  with  those  who  are  nearer  the 
grand  catastrophe  of  their  lives  than  yourself.  You 
scoff  at  temperance  and  purity  in  life.  You  laugh  at 
religion.  You  glory  in  your  independence  of  all  weak 
and  womanish  notions  of  morals  and  of  life,  yet  God 
knows  that  in  these  weak  and  womanish  notions  of 
morals  and  of  life  abides  your  only  hope  of  deliverance 
from  a  career  whose  end  is  certain  disaster  and  misery. 
Look  at  the  poor  women  who  share  your  debaucheries. 
Are  they  ruined,  or  are  they  not  ?  How  great  a  chance 
does  any  one  of  them  stand  of  reformation  and  a  hap- 
py life  ?  Can  you  not  see  that  their  lives  are  morally 
certain  to  end  in  wreck  ?  Do  you  not  know  that  their 
steps  tend  directly  into  the  blackness  of  darkness— 
into  a  horrible  tempest  of  remorse,  whose  bowlings 
even  now  ring  in  their  ears  in  the  intervals  of  artificial 
madness  ?     What  are  you  better  than  they  ?     You  are 


To  Jehu  Jones.  237 


not  better  than  they.  They  are  your  equals  and  your 
companions,  travelling  the  same  path — bound  to  the 
same  perdition.  ^ 

Would  to  Heaven  I  could  paint  to  your  imagina- 
tion the  horrors  of  a  lost  life,  that  you  and  all  who 
may  gaze  upon  the  picture  might  shrink  from  the  gulf, 
and  make  haste  to  reach  safer  and  higher  ground  !  I 
would  call  up  to  your  vision  your  former  self — the  un- 
polluted boy  and  young  man — full  of  life,  and  joy, 
and  generous  impulses,  with  inclinations  drawing  you 
toward  sin,  and  pure  influences  from  parents  and  home 
and  heaven  dissuading  you  from  it.  I  would  show  you 
how,  yielding  to  these  better  influences,  you  might  now 
be  an  honored  member  of  society,  with  a  virtuous  wife 
at  your  side,  and  pleasant  children  at  your  knee — with  a 
smiling  heaven  above  you,  a  safe  future  before  you,  an 
approving  conscience  within  you — with  conscious  free- 
dom from  the  slavery  of  thirst  and  desire — with  self- 
respect,  and  that  strength  which  comes  from  the  posses- 
sion of  the  respect  of  others.  I  would  show  you  all  your 
possibilities  of  excellence  in  manhood,  of  virtuous  hap- 
piness, of  self-denying  efibrt  for  the  good  of  society,  of 
domestic  delight,  of  faith  and  confidence  in  a  great  and 
glorious  future.  And  having  shown  you  all  these,  I 
would  show  you  all  those — lost.  I  would  show  you  a 
life  that  might  have  been  that  of  an  angel  thrown  away 
— its  physical  health  and  resources  wasted  in  debauch 


238 


Letters  to  the  Jonefes. 


eries— its  mind  feasting  only  on  impure  imaginations, 
and  delighting  only  in  impure  society — its  heart  reeking 
Avith  corruption — its  pure  ambition  dead — its  present 
controlled  by  animal  appetites,  rendered  foul  by  in- 
dulgence and  fierce  by  their  feverish  food,  and  its 
future  overclouded  by  fear.  I  would  show  you  a  man 
— the  noblest  being  God  has  placed  upon  the  earth — 
thrown  away — transformed  into  a  beast — a  gross, 
unreasoning  thing,  that  glories  in  its  appetites,  and 
boasts  of  their  indulgence — a  being  lost  to  decency,  to 
self-respect,  to  happiness,  to  good  society,  to  God — 
lost  even  to  the  poor  inheritance  of  conscious  shame. 

A  lost  life  !  What  is  it  ?  Theologians  stickle  about 
words  in  describing  the  future  of  the  vicious,  but  if 
any  theologian  can  tell  me  how  a  man  can  live  the  life 
of  a  beast,  subjecting  his  soul,  with  all  its  pure  aspira- 
tions and  inspirations,  to  the  service  of  lust,  and  throw 
away  his  life  in  this  miserable  perversion,  and  be  able 
to  look  back  upon  it  from  the  other  side  of  the  dark 
river  with  anything  but  remorse,  he  will  explain  to  me 
the  strangest  anomaly  of  the  moral  universe.  Sir,  the 
thing  is  impossible.  A  lost  life  is  something  that  be- 
longs to  a  lost  soul.  What  is  in  store  for  such  a  soul, 
of  possible  reform  in  the  long  ages  which  lie  before  it, 
I  cannot  tell.  I  only  know  that  it  has  lost  its  best 
chance,  and,  so  far  as  I  know,  its  only  chance,  for  ever- 
lasting happiness.     I  only  know  that  such  a  soul  must 


To  Jehu  Jones.  239 

go  before  its  Maker  a  polluted  thing,  full  of  regret  for 
its  life  of  folly  and  of  sin,  consciously  out  of  harmony 
with  all  pure  and  heavenly  society,  shorn  by  the  death 
of  its  body  of  every  source  of  pleasure.  I  know  that 
you  are  losing  your  life — that  you  are  marching  straight 
into  the  jaws  of  physical  and  spiritual  destruction. 
You  refuse  to  reform.  You  scoff  at  reform.  What 
remains  ?  A  life — ^lost !  My  God !  "What  a  surren- 
der of  thy  gift  is  this ! 

It  would  be  a  gratification  to  me,  sweeter  than  any 
material  success,  to  turn  your  feet  into  the  path  of  vir- 
tue ;  but  I  have  not  much  faith  in  so  happy  a  result  of 
this  expostulation.  For  many  years  I  have  watched 
the  career  of  such  men  as  you.  Death  has  reaped  a 
dozen  crops  of  them  within  my  short  memory.  The 
young  men  who  occupied  ten  years  ago  the  position 
which  you  occupy  to-day,  are  nearly  all  of  them  dead. 
One  remains,  here  and  there,  a  played-out  man,  whom 
circumstances  have  restrained  from  going  on  to  abso- 
lute suicide.  The  rest  have  hidden  their  faces  in  the 
grave,  and  no  one  speaks  of  them  except  as  of  men 
who  lost  their  lives.  Look  back,  yourself,  and  see 
how  many  of  those  with  whom  you  have  joined  in 
carousal  and  debauchery  are  now  dead.  They  are 
scattered  all  along  the  track  of  your  dissipated  life. 
How  many  of  your  companions  have  reformed  ?  Can 
you  name  one  ?     I  hope  you  can  name  many,  but  if 


you  can,  you  are  more  fortunate  than  I  am.  No,  sir,  I 
have  but  little  hope  of  saving  you,  though  it  "would 
give  me  more  joy  than  it  would  be  jDossible  for  me  to 
express  to  be  able  so  to  present  to  you  your  situation 
as  to  frighten  you  back  from  the  precipice  which  you 
are  rapidly  approaching.  If  any  entreaty  of  mine 
could  save  you,  I  would  willingly  get  on  my  knees 
before  you,  and  beg  you  to  save  yourself  by  immediate 
reform.  I  would  do  anything  to  arrest  your  progress 
to  destruction,  and  I  would  do  anything  to  turn  the 
feet  of  those  Avho  are  younger  than  you  away  from  the 
life  which  you  are  leading. 

I  have  wi-itten  you  this  public  letter  mainly  to 
arrest  the  attention  and  secure  the  salvation  of  those 
who  are  tempted  as  you  were,  when  younger,  to  for- 
sake the  path  of  temperance  and  purity.  It  is  more 
than  likely  that  when  you  commence  this  letter,  and 
notice  its  drift,  you  will  lay  it  down  without  reading 
it.  It  is  more  than  likely  that  many  young  men  who 
are  not  fallen,  but  who  are  liable  to  fall,  will  read  the 
whole  of  it.  It  is  mainly  for  the  use  and  the  warning 
of  these  men,  that  I  have  drawn  your  picture,  and  I 
place  it  before  them  with  hopefulness  of  a  good  result. 
I  would  show  them  by  your  life  whither  license  leads. 
I  would  show  them  by  your  loss  what  illicit  indulgence 
costs.  I  would  warn  them  by  the  disasters  and  death 
of  your  friends  to  abstain  from  the  intoxicating  cup. 


To  Jehu  Jones.  241 


and  to  shun  the  house  of  her  whose  steps  take  hold  on 
hell.  Licentiousness,  were  it  not  the  vuce  of  all  ages, 
might  be  called  the  s|>ecial  vice  of  this  age.  Certain  it 
is  that  never  in  the  history  of  Puritan  America  did  this 
vice  reap  to  its  infectious  bosom  such  harvests  of  the 
young  as  it  is  reaping  now.  Certain  it  is  that  this 
vice  never  spread  its  temptations  before  the  public 
with  such  impunity  as  now.  The  commiinity  seems  to 
be  benumbed,  discouraged  by  its  boldness,  strength, 
and  prevalence.  It  literally  advertises  itself  in  the 
public  streets,  and  no  man  lifts  indignantly  his  voice 
against  it.  Ruin  and  riot  thrive.  The  dram-shop  and 
the  brothel  are  everywhere,  and  into  either  of  these  no 
man  can  go  without  endangering  both  his  body  and 
his  soul.  You,  Mr.  Jehu  Jones,  will  sometime  know 
how  precious  a  possession  is  in  the  hands  of  these 
young  men — know  when  you  would  give  the  world, 
were  it  yours,  to  win  back  the  innocence  and  health 
and  peace  which  you  will  have  forever  lost — know 
when  you  would  esteem  it  a  privilege  to  adjure  them 
to  keep  their  bodies  and  their  souls  from  the  grasp  of 
those  appetites  which  will  have  borne  you  into  the 
realm  of  despair. 
11 


THE   SEVENTEENTH    LETTER. 

^a  S^^onras  ^rnolb  |oncs,  Schoolmaster. 

CONCERNING    THE    REQUIREMENTS  AND    TEE    TENDENCIES 
OF  EIS  PROFESSION. 

WHEN  I  review  the  life  and  character  of  Dr. 
Thomas  Arnold — to  honor  whom  your  name 
was  given  to  you — it  is  easy  for  me  to  imderstand  why 
he  was  so  great  a  schoolmaster.  He  was  a  profoimd 
scholar,  surpassing  iu  attainments  most  of  the  profes- 
sional men  of  his  time.  He  was  a  rare  historian,  with 
a  minute  knowledge  and  a  philosophical  appreciation 
of  modern  times,  and  that  mastery  of  antiquity  which 
enabled  him  to  write  a  History  of  Rome  that  compe- 
tent critics  have  characterized  as  "  the  best  history  in 
tlie  language."  He  was  a  theologian  of  the  highest 
class,  paying  but  little  respect  to  systems  constructed 
by  men,  but  drawing  directly  from  the  fountain  of  all 
theological  knowledge — the  Bible.    Above  all,  he  was 


To  Thomas  Arnold  Jones.  243 

a  man — a  large-hearted,  catholic  man — a  gentle,  loving 
man — fall  of  enthusiasm — devoted  to  reform — in  con- 
stant communication  with  the  best  minds  of  his  a<re 
through  a  private  correspondence,  which  astonishes  all 
who  now  look  upon  its  record — a  laborious,  conscien- 
tious, Christian  man.  Knowing  all  this  of  the  man,  it  is 
not  surprising  to  me  that  he  was  the  greatest  school- 
master of  his  generation,  or  that  we  cannot  find  his 
peer  among  the  schoolmasters  of  to-day. 

I  heard  some  years  ago  that  you  had  "  fitted  "  your- 
self "  for  teaching  " — that  you  proposed  to  make  teach- 
ing the  business  of  your  life.  I  know  comparatively 
little  about  you,  personally,  but  I  know  what,  in  the 
definitions  of  the  day,  fitting  one's  self  for  teaching 
means.  It  is  commonly  understood  that  when  a  man 
is  "  fitted  for  teaching,"  he  is  fitted  to  conduct  recita- 
tions in  the  various  branches  pursued  in  the  ordinary 
schools,  having  thoroughly  gone  through  the  usual  text- 
books himself.  If  a  man  knows  grammar,  he  is  "  fit- 
ted "  to  teach  grammar.  If  a  man  has  learned  arith- 
metic and  natural  philosophy,  and  astronomy  and  mor- 
al science,  as  he  finds  them  in  the  accredited  text-books, 
he  is  "  fitted  "  to  teach  all  those  branches  of  learning. 
"We  hear  constantly  of  young  men  and  women  who 
are  "  fitting  themselves  for  teaching,"  and  we  know 
exactly  what  the  process  is.  We  hear  often  of  those 
who  travel  in  foreign  parts  as  a  preparation  for  labor 


in  the  pulpit,  and  in  other  professions,  but  I  do  not 
remember  an  instance  of  travel,  imdertaken  by  man  or 
woman,  as  a  preparation  for  teaching,  "  Fitness  "  for 
teaching  seems  to  consist  solely  in  the  ability  to  con- 
duct recitations,  and  when  this  ability  is  compassed,  so 
that  a  candidate  for  the  teacher's  office  is  able  to  pass 
an  examination  before  a  board  more  or  less  competent 
for  the  service,  he  is  "  fitted  for  teaching." 

It  is  true  that  teachers  fitted  in  this  way  for  their 
work  are  competent  to  impart  what,  in  the  common 
lanGfuasi-e  of  the  time,  is  called  "  an  education."  With 
all  that  is  written  intelligently  on  this  subject  of  educa- 
tion at  the  present  time — and  in  my  judgment  the  sub- 
ject is  better  understood  now  than  it  has  ever  been  be- 
fore— it  is  astonishing  how  almost  imiversally  it  is  the 
opinion  that  education  consists  in  the  cramming  into  a 
child's  mind  the  contents  of  a  pile  of  text-books.  I  do 
not  think  that  I  exaggerate  at  all  when  I  say  that  three 
quarters  of  the  teachers  of  American  youth  practically 
consider  fitness  for  teaching  to  consist  in  the  ability  to 
conduct  recitations  from  the  usual  text-books,  and  that 
three  quarters  of  the  people  who  have  childi*en  to  be 
educated  regard  education  as  consisting  entirely  in  ac- 
quiring the  ability  to  answer  such  questions  as  these 
teachers  may  propose  from  the  text-books  in  their 
hiuids.  The  larger  view  of  teaching  and  of  education 
ia   not  the   prevalent  view.      Teaching  is  conducted 


To  Thomas  Arnold  Jones.  245 

often  by  men  who  are  not  competent  to  do  anything 
else.  They  take  up  teaching  as  a  preparation  for  other 
work.  A  man  teaches  as  a  preparation  for  preaching 
— as  a  stepping  stone  to  something  better — as  a  means 
of  earning  money  to  enable  him  to  learn  some  other 
work.  "  Fitness  for  teaching  "  seems  to  come  a  long 
time  before  fitness  for  anything  else  comes,  and  is  cer- 
tainly not  regarded  as  indicating  a  very  high  degree 
of  intellectual  advancement. 

I  have  no  means  of  knowing  how  far  I  have  defined 
your  notions,  or  your  attainments,  in  these  statements, 
but  I  have  prepared  you,  certainly,  for  the  proposition 
that  real  fitness  for  teaching  only  comes  with  the  most 
varied  and  generous  culture,  with  the  best  talents  en- 
thusiastically engaged,  and  the  noblest  Christian  char- 
acter. Dr.  Arnold  was  a  great  schoolmaster  simply 
because  he  was  a  great  man.  His  "  fitness  "  for  hear- 
ing recitations  was  the  smallest  part  of  his  fitness  for 
teaching.  Lideed,  it  was  nothing  but  what  he  shared 
in  common  with  the  most  indifierent  of  his  assistants 
at  Rugby.  His  fitness  for  teaching  consisted  in  his 
knowledge  of  human  nature  and  of  the  world,  his  pure 
and  lofty  aims,  his  self-denying  devotion  to  the  work 
which  employed  his  time  and  powers,  his  lofty  exam- 
ple, his  strong,  generous,  magnetic  manhood.  That 
which  fitted  him  peculiarly  for  teaching  was  precisely 
that  which  would  have  fitted  him  peculiarly  for  any 


246  Letters  to  the  Jonefes. 

other  high  office  in  the  service  of  men.  His  knowl- 
edge of  the  oi'dinary  text-books  may  not  have  been 
greater  than  that  which  you  possess.  His  excellence  as 
a  teacher  did  not  reside  in  his  eminence  as  a  scholar 
and  a  man  of  science,  though  that  eminence  is  imdis- 
puted ;  but  in  that  power  to  lead  and  inspire — to  rein- 
force and  fructify — the  young  minds  that  were  placed 
in  his  care.  He  filled  those  minds  with  noble  thoughts. 
He  trained  them  to  labor  with  right  motives  for  grand 
ends.  He  baptized  them  with  his  own  sweet  and 
strong  spirit.  He  glorified  the  dull  routine  of  toil  by 
keeping  before  the  toilers  the  end  of  their  toil — a 
grand  character — that  power  of  manhood  of  which  so 
noble  an  example  was  found  in  himself. 

Now,  my  friend,  how  well  fitted  for  teaching  are 
you,  tried  by  the  standard  which  I  place  before  you  in 
the  character  of  Dr.  Arnold  ?  I  do  not  ask  whether 
you  are  as  great  and  good  a  man  as  Dr.  Arnold.  I  do 
not  require  that  you  should  be  as  great  and  good  as 
he  ;  but  I  ask  you  whether  you  now  regard,  or  wheth- 
er you  have  ever  regarded — save  in  the  most  general 
sense — this  matter  of  fitness  for  teaching  as  being 
anything  more  than  fitness  to  govern  a  school,  and  con- 
duct recitations  intelligently?  Having  acquired  this 
sort  of  fitness  sufficiently  to  enable  you  to  get  a  posi- 
tion, are  you  pushing  on  in  the  pursuit  of  that  higher 
fitness  which  will  give  you  the  power  of  an  inspirer  of 


To  Thomas  Arnold  Jones.  247 

the  youth  who  are  placed  in  your  charge  ?  That  is  the 
question  most  interesting  not  only  to  your  pupils,  but 
to  you.  Are  you  making  progress  as  a  man,  by  con- 
stant culture  ?  Are  you  bringing  your  mind  into  com- 
munication with  other  minds,  that  you  may  gain  vital- 
ity and  force  by  contact  and  collision  ?  Are  you  read- 
ing— studying — striving  to  lift  yourself  out  of  the  dead 
literalism  of  your  recitation-rooms,  so  that  you  can  win 
higher  groimd,  whither  you  may  call  the  young  feet 
that  grow  weary  with  plodding  ?  Outgrowing  all 
bondage  to  forms  and  technicalities  and  mere  words 
and  names,  have  you  mastered  ideas,  so  that  you  caji 
give  vitaUty  to  your  teachings  ?  Do  tliese  text-books, 
to  the  mastery  of  which  you  devoted  Bome  years,  and 
in  the  exposition  of  which  you  now  spend  much  of 
your  time,  still  enthrall  you  "with  the  thought  that  they 
hold  the  secret  of  an  education  within  thoir  covers ;  or, 
standing  above  them,  do  you  look  down  upon  them  as 
rudimentary,  and  as  things  which,  in  the  consummation 
of  an  education,  are  left  far  behind  ? 

In  the  course  of  your  owti  education,  you  were,  as 
I  happen  to  remember,  placed  under  the  tutelage  of 
several  different  masters.  "VVUl  you  now  look  back 
and  recall  them  all,  and  tell  me  which  of  them  you 
remember  with  the  most  grateful  pleasure  ?  '  Tell  me 
which  of  them  all  did  you  the  most  good — which  of 
them  left  the  deepest  mark  upon  your  character,  and 


248  Letters  to  the  Jonefes. 


accomplished  most  in  building  up  and  furnishing  your 
mind  ?  Was  it  the  most  learned  man  of  them  all,  or 
M-as  it  the  wisest  man  ?  Was  it  he  who  was  most  at 
home  in  the  text-books,  or  he  whose  mind  was  fullest 
of  ideas  ?  I  know  that  you  can  give  but  one  answer 
to  my  question.  The  answer  will  be  that  he  who  was 
the  most  of  a  man  was  the  best  teacher,  and  the  name 
of  that  one  will  always  awaken  your  enthusiasm.  You 
have  been  peculiarly  unfortunate  if  you  have  not,  at 
some  time  in  your  life,  been  imder  a  teacher  who  had 
the  power  to  inspire  you  to  such  an  extent  that  all 
study  became  a  pleasure  to  you,  and  the  school-room, 
with  its  tasks  and  competitions  and  emulations,  the 
happiest  spot  which  the  earth  held.  And  now,  when 
you  look  back  to  this  man,  or  when  you  hear  his  name 
mentioned,  your  mind  kindles  with  a  new  fire,  as  if 
you  had  touched  one  of  the  permanent  sources  of  your 
moral  and  intellectual  life.  Your  best  teacher  was  the 
man  who  aroused  you — who  gave  you  high  aims  and 
lofty  aspirations — who  made  you  think,  and  taught 
you  to  organize  into  living  and  useful  forms  the 
knowledge  which  he  helped  you  to  win.  In  short,  he 
was  not  the  man  who  crammed  you,  but  the  man  who 
educated  you — who  educed  those  powers  in  which  re- 
side your  real  manhood. 

I  wish  to  impress  upon  you  the  great  truth  that 
your  excellence  and  success  as  a  teacher  depend  en- 


To  Thomas  Arnold  Jones.  249 

tirely  upon  the  style  and  strength  of  your  manhood. 
The  ability  to  maintain  order  in  a  school,  and  to  con- 
duct recitations,  with  measurable  intelligence,  is  not 
extraordinary.     It  is  possessed  by  a  large  number  of 
quite  ordinary  people,  but  that  higher  power  to  which 
I  have  attempted  to  direct  your  attention  is  extraordi- 
nary.    The  teachers  are  not  many  who  possess  it,  or 
who  intelligently  aim  to  win  it.     It  is  not  a  garment 
to  be  put  on  and  taken  oft'  like  a  coat,  but  it  is  the  re- 
sult of  the  loving  contact  of  a  generous  nature  with 
those  great  and  beautiful  realities  of  which  the  text- 
books only  present  us  the  dry  definitions.     Tlie  great- 
est naturalist  of  this  country — perhaps  the  greatest  of 
any  country — is  a  teacher  whose  equal  it  would  be 
hard  to  find  among  a  nation  of  teachers  ;  and  this  is 
true,  not  because  he  knows  so  much,  but  because  he  is 
so  much.     No  young  mind  can  come  within  the  reach 
of  his  voice  and  influence  without  being  touched  by 
his  sublime  enthusiasm.     No  pupil  ever  speaks  of  him, 
save  with  brightened  or  moistened  eyes.     I  have  heard 
women  pronounce  his  name  in  many  places,  scattered 
between  Maine  and  the  Mississippi,  and  always  in  such 
terms  of  gratitude  and  praise  that  it  has  seemed  as  if 
the  brightest  days  which  they  recalled  were  not  those 
of  childhood,  and  not  those  spent  with  parents,  or  lov- 
ers, or  husbands,  but  those  passed  at  the  feet  of  that 
noblest  of  educators  and  inspirers — Agassiz. 


250  Letters  to  the  Jonefes. 

I  have  already  intimated  tliat  this  question  as  to 
what  kind  of  a  teacher  you  are  to  be  is  quite  as  im- 
portant to  yourself  as  to  your  pupils.     The  character 
of  a  schoolmaster  has  been,  in  the  years  that  are  past, 
notoriously  a  dry  one.     It  is  really  sad  to  see  with  how 
little  aiFection  many  old  teachers  are  regarded  by  those 
who  were  once  their  pupils.     There  are  men  Avho,  hav- 
ing spent  twenty-five  years  of  their  lives  in  teaching,  are 
always  spoken  of  by  the  boys  who  have  been  under 
their  charge   as   "  old "   somebody  or   other.      "  Old 
Boggs,"  or  "  Old  Noggs,"  or   "  Old   Scroggs "   has 
stories  told  about  him,  and  is  never  mentioned  in  terms 
of  respect — much  less  in  terms  of  affection.     Now  why 
is  it  that  these  men  are  remembered  so  lightly  ?     It  is 
simply  because  they  are  teachers,  and  not  men.     They 
are  all  good  scholars  enough,  but  they  have  not  that  in 
their  characters  and  personalities  that  wins  the  love 
and  respect  of  their  pupils.     I  suppose  it  must  be  ad- 
mitted that  there  is  something  in  the  business  of  teach- 
ing Avhich  tends  to  make  the  character  dry.  The  drudg- 
ery and  detail  of  teaching  are  hardly  more  interesting 
than  the  drudgery  and  detail  of  the  work  of  the  faiTQ, 
or  of  the  kitchen.    Indeed,  I  think  the  work  of  hand- 
ling the  rake  and  the  hay-fork  a  more  refreshing  exer- 
cise for  the  mind  and  body  than  that  of  turning  over 
and  over  again  a  verb,  or  a  sum  in  simple  addition,  or 
even  a  proposition  in  Euclid.     This  everlasting  hand- 


To  Thomas  Arnold  Jones.  251 

ling  of  materials  that  have  lost  their  interest  is  a  very 
depressing  process,  to  a  mind  capable  of  higher  work  ; 
and  a  mind  that  can  interest  itself  in  such  work,  and 
find  real  satisfaction  in  it,  is  necessarily  a  dry  and  un- 
lovely one.  Do  not  misunderstand  me  with  regard  to 
this  latter  statement.  A  teacher  may  be  interested  in 
his  routine  of  labor  through  the  cfiect  that  he  aims  to 
work  upon  the  young  minds  before  him,  and  he  should 
be  intensely  interested  in  it ;  but  there  is  a  class  of 
teachers  who  seem  to  be  really  interested  in  the  drudg- 
ery of  repetition,  and  these  are  always  dry  characters, 
and  they  grow  dryer  and  dryer  until  they  die. 

You  have  fitted  yourself  for  teaching,  in  the  usual 
way.  You  are  prepared,  by  the  mastery  of  your  text- 
books, to  "  teach  school."  The  probability  is  that  you 
win  never  have  any  pupils  who  will  be  as  familiar  with 
these  books  as  yourself,  and,  so  far  as  maintaining 
your  position  is  concerned,  you  will  have  nothing  to 
do  but  to  handle  over  and  over  again  familiar  and 
hackneyed  materials.  Whatever  there  may  be  of  moral 
and  mental  nutriment  in  these  materials,  you  have  al- 
ready appropriated  and  digested.  There  is  in  them  no 
further  growth  for  you,  and,  so  far  as  any  good  to  you 
is  concerned,  you  might  as  well  handle  over  so  many 
dry  sticks.  Exactly  here  is  where  a  multitude  of 
teachers  stop.  They  never  take  a  step  in  advance.. 
The  work  of  teaching  is  severe,  and  when  they  are 


252  Letters  to  the  Jonefes. 


throngb  with  their  daily  tasks,  they  are  in  no  mood  for 
study,  or  experiment,  or  intellectual  culture  in  any 
broad  and  generous  sense.  Any  mind  will  stan-e  on 
such  a  diet  as  this,  and  the  work  of  instruction  be- 
comes to  such  a  mind  degraded  below  the  position  of 
an  intellectual  employment.  I  warn  you  against  the 
danger  of  falling  into  this  xmfruitful  routine,  which  is 
certain  to  dwarf  you,  and  give  you  a  dry  and  unattrac- 
tive character.  You  must  make  intellectual  growth 
and  progress  by  the  means  of  fresh  intellectual  food,  or 
you  must  retrograde. 

There  is  another  reason  why  the  business  of  teach- 
ing has  a  tendency  to  injure  the  character.  While  con- 
tact with  young  and  fresh  natures  tends  to  soften  and 
beautify  character  under  some  eircmnstances,  I  doubt 
whether  this  influence  is  much  felt  by  those  who  are 
enscacred  in  teachins^.  We  take  into  our  mouths  some 
varieties  of  fruits  as  a  corrective,  which  would  hardly 
be  regarded  as  the  best  of  daily  food.  We  take 
medicines  which  operate  kindly  for  a  brief  period, 
but,  if  they  are  continued  longer,  the  system  becomes 
accustomed  to  them,  and  they  lose  their  medicinal 
effect.  It  is  thus  with  the  influence  of  children.  To 
the  literary  man,  or  the  man  of  business,  the  occasional 
society  of  children  and  youth  is  very  grateful  and  re- 
freshing, but  it  soon  tires,  and  if  necessarily  long  con- 
tinued, becomes  irksome.  A  reaUy  vigorous  and  healthy 


To  Thomas  Arnold  Jones.  253 

mind,  forced  to  remain  long  in  contact  with  the  minds 
of  children,  turns  with  a  strong  appetite  toward  matu- 
rity for  stimulus  and  satisfaction.  Now  you  are  obliged 
to  spend  the  most  of  your  time  with  children,  or  those 
whose  minds  are  immature.  You  are  almost  constantly 
with  those  who  know  less  than  you  do,  and  in  this  so- 
ciety you  will  be  quite  likely  to  forget — as  many  school- 
masters have  forgotten  before  you — that  you  are  not 
the  wisest  and  most  learned  man  in  the  world.  It  is 
under  these  circumstances  that  pedants  are  made,  alike 
conceited  and  contemptible.  To  a  mature  mind,  there 
is  no  intellectual  stimulus  in  the  constant  society  of  the 
immature,  and  you  are  certain  to  become  a  dwarfed 
man  if  you  do  not  mingle  freely  in  the  society  of  your 
equals  and  your  superiors.  I  do  not  know  of  a  man  in 
the  world  who,  more  than  the  teacher,  needs  the  cor- 
rective and  refreshing  and  liberalizing  influences  of 
general  society  and  generous  culture,  to  keep  bim  from 
irreparable  damage  at  the  hand  of  his  calling.  You 
must  mix  with  thinking  men  and  women,  and  you 
must  feed  yourself  with  the  products  of  fruitful  lives, 
in  books,  or  your  degeneration  is  certain ;  and  you 
will  come  to  be  regarded  as  a  dry,  pedantic,  iminterest- 
ing  man. 

A  man  or  a  woman  who  does  nothing  but  deal  out 
small  facts  to  small  minds  is  certain  to  become  over 
critical  in  small  things.     You  have  not  been  a  school- 


254  Letters  to  the  Jonefes. 


master  so  long  as  to  forget  the  peculiar  emotion  once 
excited  in  you  by  the  presence  of  a  "  school-ma'am." 
Before  this  day  of  larger  ideas,  to  be  a  school-ma'am 
vraa  to  be  a  stiff,  conceited,  formal,  critical  character, 
■n'hich  it  was  not  altogether  pleasant  for  a  man  to  come 
into  contact  with.  There  seemed  to  be  something  in 
the  work  which  these  women  performed  that  threw 
them  out  of  sympathy  with  the  free  and  easy  world 
around  them.  They  carried  all  the  formal  proprieties, 
all  the  verbal  precisenesses,  all  the  pattern  dignities  of 
the  school-room,  into  society ;  and  one  could  not  help 
feeling  that  they  had  lost  something  of  the  softness 
and  sweetness  and  roundness  that  belong  to  the  unper- 
verted  female  nature.  All  this  has  been  improved  by 
the  modern  correctives,  but  the  reminiscence  will  help 
you  to  comprehend  one  phase  of  the  danger  to  which 
you  are  exposed.  I  think  that  if  the  world  were  to 
give  its  unbiassed  testimony  touching  this  subject,  it 
would  say  that  it  has  foimd  teachers  to  be  men  who 
give  undue  importance  to  small  details,  and  who  seem 
to  lose  the  power  to  regard  and  treat  the  great  ques- 
tions which  interest  humanity  most  in  a  large  and  lib- 
eral way. 

And  now,  before  closing,  let  me  do  the  honor  to 
your  position  which  I  find  it  in  my  heart  to  give,  for  I 
hold  that  position  second  to  none.  The  Christian 
teacher  of  a  band  of  children  combines  the  office  of 


To  Thomas  Arnold  Jones.  255 

the  preacher  and  the  parent,  and  has  more  to  do  in 
shaping  the  mind  and  the  morals  of  the  community 
than  preacher  and  parent  united.  The  teacher  who 
spends  six  hours  a  day  with  my  child,  spends  three 
times  as  many  hours  as  I  do,  and  twenty-fold  more 
time  than  my  pastor  does.  I  have  no  words  to  express 
my  sense  of  the  importance  of  your  office.  Still  less 
haA-e  I  words  to  express  my  sense  of  the  importance 
of  having  that  office  filled  by  men  and  women  of  the 
purest  motives,  the  noblest  enthusiasm,  the  finest  cvd- 
ture,  the  broadest  charities,  and  the  most  devoted 
Christian  purpose.  "Why,  sir,  a  teacher  should  be  the 
strongest  and  most  angelic  man  that  breathes.  ISTo 
man  living  is  intrusted  with  such  precious  material. 
No  man  livincr  can  do  so  much  to  set  human  life  to  a 
noble  tune.  No  man  living  needs  higher  qualifications 
for  his  work.  Are  you  "  fitted  for  teaching  ?  "  I  do 
not  ask  you  this  question  to  discourage  you,  but  to 
stimulate  you  to  an  effort  at  preparation  which  shall 
continue  as  long  as  you  continue  to  teach. 


THE   EIGHTEENTH   LETTER. 

Co  P'rs.  liosa  f  opp'm  |ottcs, 

CONCERNING  HER  DISLIKE  OF  ROUTINE  AND  HER  DESIRE 
FOR   CHANGE  AND  AMUSEMENT. 

YOU,  who  were  Rosa  Hoppin,  when  I  first  met 
you — a  restless  child — have  married  into  the 
great  Jones  family,  and  henceforward,  through  all 
time,  the  blood  of  the  Hoppins  will  mingle  with  that 
of  the  Joneses.  What  changes  will  be  wrought  by 
this  combination  of  strange  currents  does  not  now 
appear,  though  I  suspect  that  they  wUl  not  be  strongly 
marked.  Indeed,  I  am  inclined  to  believe  that  there 
have  been  Hoppins  in  the  family  before,  for  I  find 
many  Joneses  who  constantly  remind  me  of  the  Hop- 
pins, and  any  number  of  the  Hoppins  whose  ways  are 
suggestive  of  the  Joneses. 

The  children  of  the  Hoppins  do  not  differ  in  any 
essential  respect   from   the  childi-en   of  the   Joneses. 


To  Mrs.  Rosa  Hoppin  Jones.         257 

Pretty  nearly  all  children  are,  or  might  be,  Hoppin s. 
They  live  upon  little  excitements.  They  are  constantly 
on  the  alert  for  new  sources  of  pleasure.  They  delight 
in  being  away  from  home,  in  new  and  strange  places. 
They  are  miserable  without  society  and  miserable  with- 
out change.  Children  have  no  power  of  application 
to  the  performance  of  duty,  no  sources  of  interest  and 
amusement  within  themselves — no  love  of  work.  They 
grasp  a  new  toy  with  eagerness,  and  tire  of  it  before 
it  is  broken.  The  moment  they  are  compelled  to  sit 
down,  they  seize  upon  a  book,  or  ask  for  a  story,  or 
whine  with  discontent.  They  are  unhappy  unless 
something  is  going  on  for  their  amusement,  or  they 
are  going  somewhere,  or  doing  something,  with  amuse- 
ment for  their  special  object.  The  genuine  Hoppins 
rarely  outgrow  this  disposition,  but  carry  it  with  them 
to  their  graves.  The  Hoppins  do  not  sit  down  quietly 
in  their  houses  of  an  afternoon,  unless  compelled  to  do 
so  by  circumstances.  They  are  either  in  the  street,  or 
at  the  house  of  a  neighbor.  In  the  evening,  either 
their  houses  are  full  of  Hoppins,  or  they  are  out  visit- 
ing Hoppins,  or  attending  some  place  of  amusement, 
or  doing  something  at  home  to  make  them  forget  that 
they  are  at  home.  Xothing  so  weighs  down  the  spirit 
of  a  Hoppin  as  home  duty,  and  the  confinement  which 
it  involves.  Children  are  half-hated  because  they  inter- 
fere with  indulgence  in  the  passion  for  going  some- 


258  Letters  to  the  Jonefes. 


where  and  doing  something  pleasant,  and  husbands 
become  bores  when  they  happen  to  love  home,  and 
love  to  find  there  a  thrifty  and  contented  home-life. 

You — Mrs.  Rosa  Hoppin  Jones — are  still  a  child. 
You  are  married,  and  you  have  children,  but  I  do  not 
see  that  you  are  changed  at  all.  You  have  the  same 
love  of  novelty  that  possessed  you  when  you  were  a 
little  girl — the  same  greed  for  change — the  same  hor- 
ror of  staying  at  home — the  same  fondness  for  "  visit- 
ing"— the  same  restless  impatience  with  work — the 
same  desire  for  constant  and  varied  amusement.  You 
are  fond  enough  of  dress,  but  dress  does  not  absorb 
you.  You  tire  of  the  old  dresses  it  is  true,  and  greet 
the  new  ones  with  genuine  pleasure,  but,  after  all, 
dress  is  not  your  passion.  Fine  di'ess  costs  you  too 
much  care  and  trouble,  and  personal  vanity  is  not  your 
besetting  weakness.  You  would  willingly  leave  all 
this  matter  of  fine  dress  to  Mrs.  Royal  Purple  Jones 
and  her  circle,  if  you  could  be  permitted  to  have  what 
you  call  "  a  good  time."  You  delight  in  a  party,  or  a 
picnic,  or  an  excursion,  or  a  play,  or  a  pageant,  or  a 
circus,  or  an  Ethiopian  concert,  or  a  frolic  of  any  kind ; 
and  you  never  pass  a  day  at  home,  even  when  you  have 
around  you  the  society  you  love  best,  without  the  sense 
of  irksomeness.  You  will  either  have  your  house  full 
of  those  who  destroy  all  the  sweet  privacy  and  com- 
munion of  home-life,  or  you  will  invade  the  home-life 


of  some  other  person — Hoppin  or  otherwise.  And  yet, 
madam,  I  like  you.  You  are  not  a  disagreeable  person 
at  all.  Your  nature  is  affectionate  and  pleasant,  your 
tastes  are  social,  you  are  generous,  and  pure,  and  true- 
,  hearted — as  much  so  as  you  were  when  you  were  a 
child.  Your  husband  is  fond  of  you,  and  proud  of 
you.  He  has  tried  to  adapt  himself  to  you,  and  to  take 
delight  in  that  which  most  interests  you ;  yet  I  can- 
not but  think  that  a  man  who  carries  his  burden  of 
care  would  delight  most  in  a  quiet  home,  and  in 
the  certainty  of  finding  a  contented  wife  in  it,  when- 
ever he  comes  back  from  the  work  by  which  he  sup- 
ports it. 

There  are  some  women  in  the  world — and  you 
seem  to  be  one  of  them — who  never  heartily,  and  with 
devoted  purpose,  enter  upon  the  work  of  life.  You 
do  what  you  are  compelled  to  do  by  circumstances. 
If  circumstances  should  compel  you  to  do  nothing,  you 
would  do  nothing.  All  woi'k  is  an  interference  with 
your  favorite  pursuits,  or  your  mode  of  spending  time. 
Nothing  would  be  more  agreeable  to  you  than  to  have 
the  privileges  of  going,  and  gadding,  and  seeking  for 
fresh  amusements  all  your  life.  You  certainly  must 
recognize  a  difference  between  yourself  and  many  esti- 
mable women  of  your  acquaintance.  You  know  many 
women  who,  from  choice,  and  on  their  individual  re- 
sponsibility, have  undertaken  a  life-long  task  to  which 


260 


Letters  to  the  Jonefes. 


they  cheerfally  and  systematically  devote  their  powers. 
They  keep  their  houses,  and  understand  the  minutest 
affairs  connected  with  them.  They  devote  themselves 
to  the  right  training,  in  body,  mind  and  morals,  of  the 
little  ones  born  of  them.  In  society,  they  are  the  re- 
liable ones — the  women  of  character  and  consideration. 
They  are  women  who  use  time  for  good  ends,  outside 
of  themselves,  and  who  take  delight  in  action — in  the 
useful  employment  of  their  powers.  You  must,  I  re- 
peat, recognize  a  difference  between  yourself  and  these 
women.  They  have  their  life  in  exertion ;  you  have 
yours  in  amusement.  You  exercise  no  power,  but  find 
your  sweetest  satisfaction  in  the  varied  impressions 
that  are  made  iipon  your  sensibilities. 

There  is  another  class  of  women  from  whom  you 
must  find  yourself  differing  very  appreciably.  I  allude 
to  those  whose  greatest  delight  is  in  opportunities  for 
culture.  If  you  read  a  book,  you  read  it  for  the  same 
purpose  that  a  child  reads.  You  read  only  for  amuse- 
ment. You  never  read  for  instruction.  The  idea  of 
taking  up  a  book  for  purposes  of  study,  is  one  that 
never  occurs  to  yo\i ;  and  you  have  no  delight  in  a 
book  that  taxes  your  mind.  Whatever  you  read  must 
amuse  you — interest  you — absorb  you — or  you  lay  it 
down  and  call  it  stupid.  There  is  no  culture  in  such 
reading  as  this — there  is  only  dissipation.  You  read  a 
book  for  the  same  purpose  that  you  attend  a  theatre, 


To  Mrs.  Rofa  Hoppin  Jones.         261 

or  engage  in  a  frolic — for  the  simple  purpose  of  having 
your  emotional  nature  excited,  and  your  sensibilities 
played  upon.  You  never  seek  for  mental  nourishment 
or  mental  exercise  anywhere.  Thus,  though  you  read 
a  great  deal,  and  really  enjoy  some  works  that  are 
enjoyable  by  sensible  people,  you  gain  nothing.  You 
read  for  momentary  excitement,  and  win  nothing  of 
permanent  use.  You  cannot  weigh  a  book.  You  can- 
not even  talk  about  a  book,  further  than  to  say,  that 
you  like  it  or  dislike  it.  The  philosophy  or  the  lesson 
of  a  novel  or  a  poem  is  never  grasped  by  you ;  and 
every  book  you  read  is  to  you  just  what  Mother 
Goose's  Melodies  are  to  the  child,  and  no  more. 

You  must  also  perceive  a  difference  between  your- 
self, and  those  who  love  society  for  society's  sake. 
There  are  many  women  who  love  society  because  of 
the  mental  stimulus  it  brings  them — because,  in  the 
presence  of  intelligent  and  sprightly  men  and  women, 
they  feel  themselves  brightened  and  strengthened,  and 
because  they  find  in  such  society  the  most  grateful  op- 
portunity to  act  upon  others.  They  are  talking  people 
who  think  before  talking,  and  who  think  Avhile  they 
talk.  I  have  noticed  that  while  you  are  exceedingly 
fond  of  society,  you  always  shun  these  people.  You 
can  talk  nonsense,  after  a  fashion,  but  your  special  de- 
light is  in  hearing  other  people  talk  nonsense  ;  and  the 
man  or  the  woman  in  society  who  says  the  drollest 


262 


Letters  to  the  Jonefes. 


things,  and  "  runs  on "  in  the  wildest  way,  and  does 
the  most  to  amuse  you  and  to  relieve  you  from  the  ne- 
cessity of  either  thinking  or  talking,  is  the  one  who 
monopolizes  your  attention.  If  you  have  any  special 
horror,  it  attaches  to  being  cornered  with  a  sensible 
man  or  woman,  and  being  expected  to  talk  sense  with 
them.  You  see,  therefore,  that  you  do  not  go  into 
society  with  anything  in  your  hand  to  pay  for  that 
what  you  receive,  except  your  agreeable  person,  your 
willing  ears,  and  your  ready  and  complimentary  laugh. 
These  make  you  popular  enough  ;  but  are  you  not  just 
a  little  ashamed  to  think  that  your  love  of  society 
would  be  destroyed  if  you  could  find  in  society  none 
'  but  those  who  have  brains  and  a  disposition  to  use 
them  m  sensible  talk  ?  Are  you  not  ashamed  that  all 
social  circles  are  stupid  to  you  in  the  degree  that  they 
are  brilliant  to  the  wise  and  the  intellectual  and  the 
ready-witted  ?  Are  you  not  ashamed  that  the  clever 
buffoon  of  a  company  interests  you  most,  and  helps 
you  most  to  what  you  call  "  a  good  time." 

You  must  also  perceive  that  you  are  very  different 
from  those  women  to  whom  home  is  the  sweetest  spot 
on  the  earth.  I  know  many  women  who  have  be- 
come so  much  enamored  of  home  that  they  will  never 
leave  it  willingly.  They  never  go  into  society  without 
a  sense  of  sacrifice.  They  cling  to  home  as  if  they  had 
grown  to  it — as  if  every  tendi-il  of  their  heart-life  had 


To  Mrs.  Rofa  Hoppin  Jones,  203 

"wound  itself  around  its  pleasant  things,  and  could  only 
be  dislocated  by  violence.  This  love  of  home  and  this 
self-confinement  to  its  walls  and  its  duties  may  become, 
and  often  does  become,  an  intensely  morbid  passion  of 
the  soul — just  as  much  to  be  deprecated  as  an  unhealthy 
love  of  change — but  you  cannot  but  feel  that  a  sui)reme 
love  of  home  and  devotion  to  its  duties  are  very  lovely, 
and  that  the  best  women  you  know  entertain  tliis  love 
and  this  devotion  far  beyond  yourself.  Your  home  is 
not  your  refuge,  so  much  as  the  home  of  your  neigh- 
bor is.  When  you  wish  to  be  happy — when  you  feel 
the  need  of  some  soothing  and  comforting  influence — 
you  do  not  draw  the  curtains  of  your  home  about  you, 
and  draw  the  loved  ones  of  home  closer  to  your  heart, 
but  you  rush  to  the  house  of  a  neighbor  that  you  may 
forget  your  troubles  in  the  diversions  of  lively  society. 
Your  life  is  not  at  hpme.  Home  is  mainly  your  board- 
ing place ;  and  if  there  were  no  such  thing  as  "  visit- 
ing" to  be  done,  you  would  feel  life  to  be  shorn  of 
most  of  its  attraction.  In  short,  you  are  never  so  much 
at  home  as  you  are  when  you  are  not  at  home.  You 
are  affected  by  a  chronic  mental  uneasiness  which  pre- 
vents you  from  remaining  long  in  any  place — especially 
in  any  place  to  which  a  duty  holds  you. 

I  have  thus  endeavored  to  reveal  you  to  yourself, 
by  calling  your  attention  to  the  contrast  which  you — 
consciously  I  must  believe — present  to  four  different 


f- 


264  Letters  to  the  Jonefcs. 

classes  of  women  worthy  to  be  respected  and  loved, 
namely :  to  those  who,  by  definite  purpose,  have 
devoted  themselves  to  a  life  of  active  duty  at  home 
and  in  society ;  to  those  whose  satisfactions  are  found 
in  culture  and  its  opportunities  ;  to  those  who  love 
society  for  the  mental  stimulus  and  strength  it  im- 
parts, and  to  those  who  are  supremely  in  love  with 
home  and  its  quiet  enjoyments.  To  one  of  these  four 
classes,  or  to  sundry  or  all  of  them  combined,  you 
must  know  that  the  best  women  of  this  world  belono: : 
and  I  believe  that  you  have  sense  enough  to  imderstand, 
and  sensibility  enough  to  fcel  that  you  are  not  of  this 
number.  You  are  a  frivolous  woman,  constantly  on  the 
look-out  for  new  sources  of  pleasure,  and  with  no  definite 
purpose  except  to  get  along  as  easily  as  possible  with 
such  duties  as  circumstances  have  forced  upon  you,  and 
to  have  just  as  many  "  good  times "  as  circumstances 
will  permit  you  to  have. 

Will  you  permit  me  now  to  say,  in  all  frankness, 
that  I  believe  you  to  be  made  for  something  better 
than  this  ?     You  have  qualities  of  body  and  mind  and 

heart  out  of  which  a  noble  woman  may  be  made 

qualities  which  I  cannot  help  admiring  any  more  than 
I  can  help  loving  the  light.  Your  nature  is  open  and 
frank,  and  you  will  admit  at  once  evervthin^  I  have 
said  concerning  yourself  You  possess  a  pleasant  tem- 
per and  a  pure  flow  of  animal  spirits,  and  an  affectionate 


nature,  and  a  general  desire  that  others  may  have  just 
as  good  a  time  as  you  have.  But  you  get  no  mental 
growth,  you  accomplish  no  worthy  purpose,  you  are 
not  the  steadily  radiant  centre  of  a  worthy  home  life. 
You  are  not  doing  a  true  woman's  work  in  the  world, 
for  husband,  children  and  friends,  or  gaining  a  true 
woman's  wealth  of  character  and  culture.  You  are,  as 
I  have  told  you  before,  a  child,  with  children  on  your 
lap  and  at  your  knee — children  who  do  not  very  pro- 
foundly respect  you — children  whose  acute  percep- 
tions have  already  learned  your  weakness — children 
who  already  treat  you  like  a  child.  Are  you  never  to 
be  a  woman  ?  You  ought  not  only  to  love  home,  but 
you  ouglit  to  be  the  abiding  corner-stone  of  liome. 
Your  husband's  house  is  not  home  \\'ithout  your  pres- 
ence and  your  presidency.  That  restless  mind  of  yours 
should  have  steady  work  and  healthy  food.  It  should 
have  a  business — work  that  will  engage  its  powers  in 
the  accomplishment  of  a  worthy  object — work  that  will 
fill  your  time  and  make  these  "  \'isits  "  of  yours,  and 
these  "  good  times  "  of  yours,  the  healthy  diversions 
and  not  the  absorbing  pursuits  of  your  life.  There 
is  a  Avorld  of  life  and  power  in  you.  It  only  needs  to 
be  held  and  trained  and  put  to  noble,  womanly  service. 
I  hope  you  are  not  so  badly  dissipated  that  your  will 
has  lost  the  decision  necessary  to  execute  the  wish 
which  I  am  certain  now  springs  in  your  heai't. 


266  Letters  to  the  Jonefes. 


If  you  should  undertake  reform  let  me  warn  you 
against  a  mistake  that  you  will  be  quite  likely  to  make. 
There  are  not  a  few  women  in  the  world,  considered 
very  useful  and  pious  persons,  who  are  useful  and  pious 
in  the  same  way  that  you  are  useless  and  dissipated. 
They  are  just  as  fond  of  change  and  excitement  as  you 
are,  and,  being  of  a  religious  turn  of  mind,  they  seek 
religious  excitements,  and  suppose  themselves  to  be  in 
the  path  of  duty.  They  attend  a  prayer  meeting,  or 
make  visits  to  the  poor,  or  wait  at  a  hospital,  or  go  to 
a  benevolent  sewing-circle,  or  distribute  religious  read- 
ing, or  minister  to  the  sick,  or  attend  a  stranger's 
funeral,  for  the  change  and  the  excitement  which  they 
find  in  these  things.  They  are  just  as  fond  of  being 
away  from  home  as  you  are,  and  they  seek  excitement 
and  amusement  for  the  same  reason.  I  do  not  think 
that  I  entertain  more  respect  for  them  than  for  you. 
Perhaps  the  sort  of  dissipation  which  they  choose  is 
preferable  to  yours,  but  their  motives  can  hardly  be 
called  better.  Some  of  these  women  nesrlect  their 
home  duties  very  much,  and  they  do  it  simply  because 
they  cannot  obtain  in  them  the  excitement  and  amuse- 
ment which  they  seek.  Many  of  them  are  out  on  what 
they  suppose  to  be  purely  religious  or  benevolent  er- 
rands, when  they  ought  to  be  at  home  with  their  hus- 
bands and  children.  Becoming  like  these  women,  you 
would  only  change  your  style  of  dissipation,  without 


To  Mrs.  Roia  Hoppin  Jones.  267 

essentially  changing  your  motive,   or  working  a  de- 
sirable revolution  in  your  home-life, 

No ;  you  must  learn  the  ditlicult  lesson  that  in 
routine  lives  the  real  charm  of  life  and  the  essential 
condition  of  progress  and  growth.  That  which  is  now 
irksome  to  you,  must  be  heartily  recognized  as  essential 
to  your  happiness.  You  must  learn  to  be  happy  in  the 
performance  of  a  daily  round  of  duty  at  home,  and 
learn  to  be  dissatisfied  unless  that  daily  round  of  duty 
shall  be  performed.  You  must  learn  to  take  most 
pleasure  in  those  excitements  which  flow  from  action, 
not  passion.  These  excitements  of  sensibility  in  which 
you  have  your  life  are  legitimately  only  diversions  from 
routine.  Ah  !  this  routine  which  is  so  hateful  to  you  ! 
Why — madam — routine  is  the  road  to  heaven  and  God. 
Routine  is  the  pathway  of  the  stars  and  the  seasons, 
the  song  of  the  tides,  the  burden  of  all  the  generations. 
The  clouds  sing  it  to  the  meadow,  the  meadow  to  the 
brook,  the  brook  to  the  river,  the  river  to  the  sea,  and 
the  sea  to  the  clouds  again,  in  everlasting  circles  of 
beauty  and  ministry.  Routine  is  the  natural  path  of 
all  true  human  life.  It  is  in  this  path  that  the  feet 
grow  strong  and  steady,  and  the  soul  adjusts  itself 
familiarly  to  its  conditions.  It  is  in  this  path  only  that 
genuine  peace  and  contentment  are  found  ;  and  you 
must,  of  stern  and  settled  purpose,  hold  yourself  to  this 
path  imtil  you  feel  the  upward  lift  of  its  spiral  round, 


268  Letters  to  the  Jonefes. 

and  know  that  you  are  reaching  a  calmer  atmosphere 
and  a  more  womanly  because  a  diviner  life.  Xever  be 
afraid  of  routine.  It  has  in  it  the  secret  of  your  refor- 
mation and  the  condition  of  your  success. 

If  you  could  but  see,  as  I  see,  what  a  grace  thought- 
fulness  would  give  your  character,  and  could  meas- 
ure, as  my  imagination  measures,  the  loveliness  that 
would  come  to  you  through  the  chastening  of  your 
wayward  impulses  by  work  and  self-devotion,  I  am  sure 
you  would  fall  in  love  with  the  picture,  and  make  any 
saciifice  to  realize  its  truthfulness.  It  pains  me  to  see 
you  so  frivolous,  so  childish,  so  incapable  of  work,  so 
impatient  of  home  restraint  and  routine,  so  fond  of 
wandering,  so  devoted  to  amusement  and  play  ;  for  I 
know  that  the  time  must  come  when  those  animal 
spirits  of  yours  will  droop,  when  the  little  delights  that 
now  entertain  you  will  become  insipid,  and  when  you 
will  learn  that  your  life  has  been  wasted,  in  a  child- 
hood that  rotted  at  last  without  ripening  into  woman- 
hood. 


THE    NINETEENTH    LETTER. 

^0  liffcrson  Jlabb  loncs,  |^olitiriaiT. 
coycEnyiya  the  immorality  of  bis  pursuits,  and 

THEIR  EFFECT  UPOX  UIMSELF  AXD  HIS  COUXTRY. 

THE  love  of  that  which  we  call  country  is  among 
the  highest  and  noblest  passions  of  the  soul. 
The  love  that  kindles  into  joyful  enthusiasm  at  the 
sight  of  the  national  symbol,  that  feels,  personally, 
every  insult  oftered  to  its  object,  that  burns  brightest 
in  absence,  that  is  full  of  chivalry  and  bravery  and  self- 
devotion,  that  sacrifices  itself  on  battle  fields,  and 
counts  such  sacrifice  a  joy  and  a  glory,  that  lives  even 
after  country  is  lost,  and  passes  down  through  many 
generations  as  a  precious  inheritance — this,  if  not  reli- 
gion, in  one  of  its  forms  of  manifestation,  is  certainly 
its  next  of  kin.  Indeed,  there  is  something  of  every 
love,  and  of  all  love,  in  patriotism.  Country  is  the 
patriot's  mistress,  his  father  and  his  mother,  his  broth- 


er  and  his  sister,  his  home,  his  teacher,  his  friend,  his 
treasure — the  storehouse  mto  which  he  garners  all  his 
affections — heavenly  and  human — all  his  interests,  as- 
pirations, hopes ;  and  when  necessity  demands  it,  he 
turns  his  face  and  feet  from  mistress,  father,  mother, 
brother,  sister,  home,  friend,  and  treasure,  and  gives 
himself  to  his  country,  in  obedience  to  motives  that 
are  hardly  to  be  distinguished  from  the  highest  reli- 
gious feelings  and  convictions  which  his  bosom  holds. 
I  think  it  would  be  hard  to  tell  where,  in  the  sublimer 
walks  of  the  soul,  patriotism  leaves  off  and  religion  be- 
gins. In  many  of  its  humbler  manifestations  patriot- 
ism doubtless  halts  this  side  of  heaven,  but  when  it  be- 
comes sacrificial,  its  incense  curls  around  the  pillars  of 
The  Eternal  Throne. 

It  is  to  Christian  patriotism  that  we  are  to  look  for 
all  the  motives  which  have  any  legitimate  place  in  gov- 
ernment, and  the  management  of  public  affairs,  yet  it 
is  to  patriotism  that  resort  is  rarely  made.  For  the 
selfishness  of  supremely  selfish  men  has  organized  other 
and  baser  motives,  by  which  all  public  policy  is  fash- 
ioned. The  love  of  power  and  the  love  of  office  and 
the  love  of  money  have  all  conspired  in  the  organization 
of  parties,  which  live  upon  lies,  and  which  unifonnly 
die,  at  last,  for  lack  of  dupes,  or  perish  of  their  own 
corruptions.  It  is  possible,  of  course,  that  two  equally 
patriotic  men  may  differ  widely  in  their  views  of  pub- 


To  JefFerfon  Davis  Jones.  271 

lie  policy^so  widely  that  theii*  opinions  may  furnish  a 
legitimate  basis  for  opposite  political  parties.  Theo- 
retically, therefore,  political  parties  have  legitimate 
ground  to  stand  upon,  but  practically  they  are  a  curse 
to  the  country.  For  the  love  of  party  has  always 
usurped  the  place  of  the  love  of  coimtry.  Everything, 
on  every  side,  is  done  in  the  name  of  patriotism,  of 
course ;  but  patriotism  is  made  subservient  to,  and  is 
confounded  with  party  interest.  Men  forget  "  our 
country  "  in  their  mad  devotion  to  "  our  side."  It  has 
always  been  so  ;  I  fear  it  will  always  be  so.  History 
makes  a  imiform  record  of  the  fact  that  however  patri- 
otic the  birth  of  a  party  may  be,  and  however  patriotic 
may  be  the  motives  of  the  people  who  sustain  it,  it 
passes  early  into  the  hands  of  designing  men,  whose 
supremely  selfish  love  of  power  controls  its  action  and 
directs  its  issues,  solely  for  personal  and  party  advan- 
tage. 

Every  thorough  politician  in  the  world — every  man 
in  whom  love  of  party  is  stronger  than  love  of  coimtry 
— every  man  in  Mhom  the  love  of  power  is  the  pre- 
dominant motive — is  a  possible  traitor.  It  matters  not 
what  party  he  may  belong  to.  I  make  the  proposition 
broad  enough  to  embrace  all  parties,  and  believe  in  it, 
as  I  believe  in  any  fundamental  truth  of  the  Universe. 
A  politician  is  a  man  who  looks  at  all  public  affairs 
from  a  selfish  stand-point.     He  loves  power  and  office. 


272  Letters  to  the  Joneles. 

and  all  that  power  and  office  bring  of  cash  and  consid- 
eration. Public  measures  are  all  tried  by  the  standard 
of  party  interest.  A  measure  which  threatens  to  take 
away  his  power,  or  to  reduce  his  personal  or  party  in- 
fluence, is  always  opposed.  A  measure  which  prom- 
ises to  strengthen  his  powei*,  or  that  of  the  party  to 
which  he  is  attached,  is  always  favored.  The  good  of 
his  coimtry  is  a  matter  of  secondary  consideration. 
His  venality  and  untruthfulness  are  as  calculable,  under 
given  circumstances,  as  if  he  Avere  Satan  himself.  I 
know  of  no  person  so  reliably  unconscientious  as  the 
thorough  politician,  and  there  is  no  politician  of  any 
stripe  that  I  would  trust  with  the  smallest  public  in- 
terest, if  I  could  not  see  that  his  selfishness  harmonized 
with  the  requirements  of  the  service.  Therefore  I  say 
that  every  politician  is  a  possible  traitor.  There  is  not 
a  man  in  America  w^ho  loves  his  party  better  than  his 
country,  or  who  permits  party  motives  to  control  him 
in  the  discharge  of  his  duties  as  a  citizen,  who  would 
not  betray  his  country  at  the  call  of  his  party. 

I  introduce  my  letter  to  you,  Mr.  Jefferson  Davis 
Jones,  with  these  statements,  that  I  may  the  more 
easily  show  you  to  yourself,  and  justify  my  opinion  of 
you ;  for  it  will  be  hard  for  me  to  convince  you  and 
the  public  of  your  immorality.  The  public  mind  is 
thoroughly  sophisticated  on  this  subject.  The  public 
has  a  suitable  horror  of  gambling  with  dice  and  cards, 


To  Jefferlbn  Davis  Jones.  273 

but  is  quite  ready  to  call  those  most  indecent  and  im- 
moral games  of  chance  which  Wall  street  plays  "  oper- 
^ations  in  stocks."     Nay,  the  public  permits  tliese  oper- 
ations to  fix  the  prices  of  the  property  it  holds  in  its 
hands,  and,  indirectly,  of  the  bread  it  cats.     It  is  quite 
as  oblivious  of  the  real  character  of  the  politicians  who 
lead  it  by  the  nose.     A  clever  politician,  who  manages 
to  keep  power  in  liis  liands  for  personal  and  party  ends 
— who  is  imscrupulous  in  the  choice  of  means  for  se- 
curing his  purposes — wlio  is  not  even  suspected  of  a 
patriotic  motive  in  any  act  of  his  life — is  regarded 
with  a  degree  of  admiration  and  esteem.     He  wins  the 
objects  of  his  desire,  and  his  success  crowns  his  eftbrts 
with  respectability.     Jefferson  Davis,  himself,  linds  it 
for  his  personal  and  political  interest  to  plunge  the 
country  which  has  honored  him  into  the  most  terrible 
war  known  in  history,  and  the  people  are  filled  with 
horror  at  his  treachery  and  his  ingratitude.     Jefferson 
Davis  Jones,  actuated  by  the  same  motive,  opposes 
him  ;  and  one  is  just  as  bad  as  the  other,  and  owes  to 
circumstances,  and  not  to  his  principles,  the  fact  that 
he  is  not  in   the  other's   shoes.      If  Jc-fierson  Davis 
Jones,  who  now  prates  of  liberty  and  patriotism  and 
sundry  party  words  and  phrases,  were  in  the  dominions 
of  Jefferson  Davis,  he  would  be  his  most  willing  in- 
strument, without  the  slightest  change  in  the  ruling 
motive  of  his  life. 


274  Letters  to  the  Jonefes. 


Do  you  not  feel,  sir,  tliat  this  is  so  ?  Do  you  not 
know  that  to  all  intents  and  purposes  you  make  mer- 
chandise of  your  country  ?  Do  you  not  regard,  and 
have  you  not  for  years  regarded,  politics  as  a  grand, 
exciting  game  of  mingled  chance  and  skill,  at  which 
opposing  sets  of  men  play,  not  that  advantage  may  ac- 
crue to  their  country  or  its  institutions,  but  that  the 
stakes  of  power  and  plimder  may  be  won  for  selfish 
use  ?  Of  course  you  know  this  ;  but  it  is  not  so  much 
a  matter  of  course  that  you  know  this  view  to  be  im- 
moral, and  this  treatment  of  your  coimtry  sacrilegious. 
You  have  been  bred  to  these  things  among  men  who 
were  honored  and  respected.  You  have  learned  to 
gamble  for  power  from  men  who  first  used  you  as  their 
tool.  You  have  learned  all  the  tricks  of  the  political 
hells.  You  pull  wires,  and  play  puppets,  and  veil  your 
selfish  purposes  behind  sacred  names,  and  lie  to  the 
people  whom  you  make  your  dupes.  Open  falsehood, 
wicked  innuendo,  cunning  evasion,  shameless  suppres- 
sion, do^vnright  fraud — not  one  of  these  instruments 
do  you  hesitate  to  use  when  occasion  demands  for  se- 
curing your  personal  and  party  ends.  I  tell  you,'  sir, 
that  these  lies  and  subterfuges,  over  which  you  laugh 
and  jest  in  private,  are  outrageous  crimes  against  liber- 
tj^  against  good  government,  against  a  patriotic  people, 
against  the  public  morals,  against  God. 

What  is  this  country  that  you  are  playing  with  so 


To  Jeflerlon  Davis  Jones.  275 

carelessly — whose  interests  you  are  making  secondary 
to  your  own  ?  It  is  the  present  home  of  thirty  mil- 
lions of  people — the  future  home  of  uncounted  hun- 
dreds of  millions  of  people,  whose  destiny  is  to  be 
shaped  and  decided  in  a  great  degree  by  the  institu- 
tions of  the  country,  and  the  men  who  make  and  ad- 
minister  its  laws.  You  cannot  tamper  with  a  single 
human  right  without  awaking  the  groans  of  whole 
generations  of  men.  You  cannot  cram  a  lie  down  the 
public  throat,  and  manage  to  incorporate  that  lie  into 
the  public  life,  without  vitiating  the  issues  of  that  life 
through  all  coming  time.  You  and  your  friends  can- 
not lead  the  nation  into  mistakes  of  theory  and  practice 
without  leading  it  into  certain  and  serious  disaster. 
This  country,  while  I  write  these  lines  to  you,  is  suffer- 
ing indescribable  evils  from  the  influence  of  just  such 
men  as  you.  The  rebellicm  which  costs  us  hundreds 
of  thousands  of  priceless  lives,  and  thousands  of  mil- 
lions of  treasure,  is  entirely  the  work  of  politicians  ; 
and  if  it  should  fail  to  be  suppressed,  and  the  national 
honor  should  fall  short  of  entire  vindication,  it  will  be 
through  the  machinations  of  politicians.  The  people 
of  this  country  are  patriotic  and  loyal,  and  their  action 
will,  in  the  main,  be  patriotic  and  loyal,  when  they  aro 
not  deceived  by  you  and  men  like  you.  "We  have  only 
politicians  to  fear.  Selfish  men  have  played  their 
games  for  power  over  this  country  too  long  ;  and  now 


276 


Letters  to  the  Jonefes. 


we  have  the  day  of  reckoning.  Not  a  man  falls  in  this 
horrible  vrax  who  does  not  owe  his  death  to  those 
scheming  politicians,  who,  in  the  past,  have  regarded 
their  country  simply  as  a  chess-board  on  which  they 
could  play  their  game  for  power. 

What  is  this  country  that  you  are  playing  with  so 
carelessly  ?  I  ask  again.  It  is  that  for  which  a  mil- 
lion men  have  voluntarily  risked  all  of  good  that  is 
covered  by  the  name  of  "  life."  It  is  that  for  which 
the  great  and  generous  have  been  willing  to  relinquish 
home  delights,  and  home  pursuits,  and  fond  hopes  and 
expectations,  taking  upon  themselves  the  burdens  of 
the  camp,  and  yielding  themselves  to  th£  sad  chances 
of  the  battle  field.  It  is  that  for  which  a  nation  of 
Christians  has  prayed  before  God  with  faithful  per- 
sistence, mentioning  its  name  with  tenderest  love  and 
reverence,  morning  and  night,  among  the  names  they 
love  best.  It  is  the  inheritance  of  our  precious  chil- 
dren— an  inheritance  that  may  be  one  of  honor — that 
may  be  one  of  shame.  It  is  the  property  of  history. 
Far  down  the  vista  of  time,  I  see  the  man  (whom  it 
requires  no  prophetic  eye  to  see)  whose  mind  will 
weigh  the  character  of  this  country,  and  whose  pen 
will  give  his  judgment  record.  I  see  him  sitting  in  the 
light  of  a  dawning  millennium,  while  the  lurid  fires 
that  now  fill  the  sky  with  flame  only  feebly  light  the 
hem  of  the  far  horizon.   You  and  I  will  have  been  dust 


five  hundred  years,  when  that  calm  pen  shall  begin  its 
story — a  story  which  shall  determine  for  all  the  follow- 
ing generations  of  men  whether  you  and  I  had  a  coun- 
try or  whether  we  died  without  one,  or  whether  we 
were  worthy  of  one, — a  story  which  shall  tell  whether 
we  wasted  our  inheritance — whether  we  bartered  it 
away  for  party  advantage,  or  saved  and  sanctified  it  by 
our  patriotism.  This  man,  so  certainly  unborn — so  cer- 
tain to  live — has  this  country  in  his  hands  to  present 
to  the  great  futurity  of  the  world.  lie  has  you  and 
me  and  all  that  we  hold  dear  in  his  hands,  and  we  can- 
not help  ourselves  ;  and  this  country  of  ours  we  hold 
in  trust  for  him.  Shall  we  betray  our  trust,  and  damn 
ourselves  and  our  country  together  ? 

That  which  gives  me  most  apprehension  for  the  fu- 
ture of  my  country  is  the  fact  that  its  afi*airs  are  in  the 
hands  of  such  as  you,  and  are  likely  to  be.  Theoreti- 
cally, we  are  a  self-governing  nation  ;  practically,  we 
are  governed  by  designing  politicians.  Theoretically, 
the  people  select  their  own  candidates  for  office,  and 
elect  them ;  practically,  every  candidate  for  office  is 
selected  by  the  politicians,  the  candidate  himself  being 
of  the  number,  and  the  people *are  only  used  for  voting, 
and  for  confirming  the  decrees  of  their  political  lead- 
ers. For  fifty  years  this  country  has  not  been  gov- 
erned in  the  interests  of  patriotism,  or  been  governed 
by  the   people.     For   fifty  years,  patriotism   has  not 


278 


Letters  to  the  Jonefes. 


ruled  in  "Washington,  or  in  any  of  the  political  centres 
of  the  nation.     Occasionally,  a  true  patriot  has  been 
placed  in  power,  but  it  has  always  been  a  matter  of  ac- 
cident.    Occasionally,  a  patriot  has  been  "  available  " 
for  carrying  out  the  purposes  of  the  politicians,  in 
their  strife  for  power.    But  often  imbecility  and  rascal- 
ity have  been  foimd  "  available,"  and  politicians  have 
not  failed  to  take  advantage  of  the  fact.     Selfish  party 
men  have  ruled  the  country,  and  selfish  party  men  are 
trying  to  ruin  it.     It  is  beyond  dispute  that  the  politi- 
cal leaders  of  the  people  of  this  country  have  uniform- 
ly been  men  without  religion,  and  without  even  the 
pretension  of  religion.     When  a  political  man  or  a 
candidate  for  office  has  been  found  to  be  religious,  the 
fact  has  been  advertised  as  a  remarkable  one.     Look 
at  the  great  political  leaders  ;  then  at  the  lesser  ones  ; 
then  at  the  whole  brood  of  petty  politicians  who  are 
their  tools  and  the  recipients  of  their  favors.     You 
know  that  you  cannot  find,  in  all  the  country,  a  class 
of  men  less  regardful  of  Christian  obligation,  or  more 
thoroughly  the  devotees  of  selfish  interest. 

Yet  this  is  called  a  Chistian  nation  !  The  theories 
and  the  institutions  of  the  country  are  Christian,  but 
the  practice  and  the  administration  has  as  little  to  do 
with  Christianity  as  possible.  Do  you  and  your  asso- 
ciates, when  laying  out  and  prosecuting  a  political  cam- 
paign, ever  consult  Christianity,— either  its  dictates  or 


To  JefFerfon  Davis  Jones.  279 

its  interests  ?  Are  you  Christian  in  your  treatment  of 
an  opponent  ?  Are  you  particular  to  use  only  Christian 
means  in  for-vvarding  the  interests  of  your  candidates 
and  your  party  ?  Do  you  push  a  Christian  principle 
any  further  than  it  will  pay  as  a  party  principle  ?  Do 
you  not  uniformly  pander  to  the  prejudices  of  the  igno- 
rant, and  flatter  the  vices  of  the  vicious,  while,  at  the 
same  time,  you  hypocritically  pretend  to  respect  the 
religious  convictions  of  the  better  elements  of  society  ? 
Do  you  not  mingle  with  the  degraded,  and  court  the 
smiles  of  those  who  live  upon  social  vices,  and  descend 
to  the  meanest  tricks  to  compass  your  ends  ?  You  can 
have  bxit  one  answer  to  these  questions.  The  political 
machinery  of  this  country — that  by  which  elections  are 
carried,  as  they  always  are  carried,  in  the  interest  of  a 
party — is  simply  and  irredeemably  unchristian.  It  has 
not  in  it  even  the  poor  quality  of  decency. 

I  have  talked  in  a  general  way  to  you  about  these 
things,  because  you  are  only  a  representative  of  a 
class,  and  because  I  am  more  interested  in  my  country 
than  I  am  in  either  you  or  your  class  ;  but  it  is  proper 
that  I  say  something  to  you  about  the  effect  of  your 
political  life  upon  yourself.  You  have  probably  seen 
enough  of  it  to  learn  that  its  lack  of  religious  principle 
is  not  attributable  entirely  to  the  fact  that  only  bad 
men  engage  in  it.  You  have  learned  that  many  men 
who  have  gone  into  political  life  good  men,  have  come 


280 


Letters  to  the  Jonefes. 


out  of  it  bad  men.  You  have  seen  Christian  men  there 
who  failed  to  maintain  their  integrity  among  the  temp- 
tations that  assailed  them.  You  have  seen  good  men 
elected  to  office,  by  a  combination  of  influences,  who, 
in  their  selfish  desire  to  retain  their  places  have  thrown 
themselves  into  the  hands  of  such  as  you,  and  have  be- 
come as  mean  and  unprincipled  as  any  of  them.  A 
minister  of  the  gospel,  turned  politician,  Avill  show  the 
degrading  power  of  his  new  associations  quicker  than 
any  other  man.  There  has  seemed  to  be  an  impression 
in  the  minds  of  Christian  men  that  duplicity  and  trick- 
ery are  indispensable  to  a  politician,  and  not  only 
necessary,  but  justifiable.  It  has  been  the  practice  to 
recognize  other  than  a  Christian  rule  of  action  in  polit- 
ical afiairs,  so  that,  after  a  Christian  man  has  been  in 
political  life  sufficiently  long,  he  usually  wears  out  his 
Christianity.  It  is  impossible  for  a  Christian  to  go 
into  political  life,  and  stay  there  as  a  party  man,  and 
join  in  the  operation  of  party  machinery,  and  retain  a 
conscience  void  of  ofiense. 

How  is  it  with  you  ?  I  remember  the  time  when 
you  were  not  only  a  patriot,  but  professedly  a  Chris- 
tian. I  remember  when  you  first  held  office  ;  and  of 
the  Christian  patriotism  which  actuated  you  in  your 
first  party  strife  I  never  had  a  doubt.  You  worked 
faithfully  and  well  for  what  you  believed  to  be  the 
right.    The  selfish  crowd  with  whom  you  now  asso- 


ciate  looked  on  with  approval,  because  you  helped 
them ;  but  they  regarded  you  as  verdant,  and  knew 
with  measurable  certainty  that  your  generous  zeal 
would  soon  find  rest  in  calculating  selfishness.  Your 
term  of  oftice  expired,  and  you  were  in  want  of  ofiice 
again,  and  then  you  found  yourself  in  the  hands  of 
those  whom  you  had  already  learned  were  unprinci- 
pled. They  had  called  on  you  for  money  for  party 
purposes — money  which  you  knew  would  be  spent  in 
an  uncliristian  way,  and  you  had  given  it  to  them. 
You  became  aware  that  they  had  placed  a  market  value 
on  your  Christian  character,  and  had  calculated  on  the 
amount  that  your  patriotic  unselfishness  would  add  to 
their  capital.  You  learned  then  to  Scheme  with  them. 
You  grew  unscrupulous  in  the  use  of  means.  You 
learned  to  regard  politics  as  a  game,  and  you  deter- 
mined to  become  a  player.  It  took  but  a  short  time 
for  you  to  become  an  adept,  and  Avhen  you  had  con- 
quered the  political  trade  thoroughly,  you  had  become 
a  demoralized  man.  I  do  not  think  you  a  debauchee, 
or  a  thief,  or  a  murderer  ;  but  you  have  lost  your  sin- 
cerity, your  moral  honesty,  your  Christian  purpose, 
and  your  patriotism.  I  can  hardly  imagine  a  character 
more  utterly  valueless  than  yours.  You  have  come  to 
measuring  everything  by  a  party  standard;  Yon  look 
upon  every  public  question,  every  matter  of  policy, 
and  every  event,  as  a  party  man.     You  belong  to  that 


282  Letters  to  the  Jonefes. 

hellish  brood  of  political  buzzards  who  cannot  hear  of 
a  battle,  or  scent  a  rumor  of  war  or  of  peace  even, 
without  calculating  first  what  party  advantage  can  be 
gained  from  it. 

I  suppose  that  if  I  were  to  give  utterance  to  my 
wishes  and  my  aspirations  touching  the  future  of  my 
country,  I  should  be  called  Utopian.     But  that  which 
is  possible,  and  that  which  is  desirable  on  every  Chris- 
tian and  patriotic  consideration,  is  not  Utopian,  and  I 
should  be  forever  ashamed   of  being  scared  by  the 
taunt.     This  country  is  to  be  saved  to  freedom  and  to 
happiness  and  justice,  if  saved  at  all,  by  the  Christian 
patriotism  of  its  people,  and  by  the  institution,  in  the 
place  of  party  machinery  managed   by  unprincipled 
men,  of  some  system  of  popular  expression  that  shall 
place  good  men  in  power,  and  bad  men  in  prison, 
where  they  belong.     It  is  easy  for  you  and  your  asso- 
ciates to  sneer,— easy  to  say  that  this  is  all  imprac- 
ticable, tliat  the  people  cannot  possibly  prevent  you 
from  pulling  the  wires,  and  that,  moreover,  you  will 
continue  to  use  the  people  for  your  own  selfish  ends, 
and  use  them  with  their  consent.     I  say  it  is  not  im- 
])racticable,  because  it  is  in  the  line  of  Christian  and 
patriotic  duty,  and  is  not  impossible.     I  say  that  this 
change  must  be  made,  or  we  must,  as  a  nation,  be  for- 
ever going  through  financial  revolutions,  social  convnl- 
BJons,  destructive  wars,  and  all  that  terrible  catalogue 


To  Jefferfon  Davis  Jones.  283 

of  national  calamities  which  attend  the  manasrement 
of  a  nation  for  selfish  ends.  The  Christian  and  patri- 
otic men  of  this  nation  must  rise,  under  Christian  and 
patriotic  leaders,  whom  they  shall  choose,  and  depose 
the  infernal  crew  with  which  you  hold  association,  or 
we  must,  as  a  nation,  drift  along  in  a  state  of  constant 
social  warfare,  to  land  at  last  in  anarchy.  A  nation 
that  is  governed  by  its  worst  men,  who  have  at  com- 
mand its  worst  elements  for  that  purpose,  must  go  to 
wreck.  Only  the  nation  that  governs  its  worst  men, 
and  holds  its  worst  elements  in  subjection,  can  live. 
You  must  die,  therefore,  or  the  nation  must  die. 
Which  shall  it  be  ? 


THE  twe:n'tieth  letter. 

STo  ^r.  ^cnjamitt  |iitsli  |onts. 

COKCERNING  TEE  POSITION  OF  HIMSELF  AND  HIS 
PROFESSION. 

I  HAVE  abundant  reason  to  hold  you  in  profound 
and  tender  respect.  Tour  devotion  to  me  in  sick- 
^ness,  your  benevolent  self-sacrifice  among  the  poor,  your 
sympathy  for  the  young  and  the  weak,  your  uniform  kind- 
ness and  politeness  among  all  classes  of  people,  and  the 
Christian  spirit  and  the  Christian  counsel  that  you  have 
been  able  to  bear  into  all  those  scenes  of  suffering  among 
•which  your  life  is  mainly  passed,  have  won  my  reverent 
affection.  I  have  never  heard  you  utter  a  coarse  word 
in  the  presence  of  a  woman,  or  jest  with  coarse  women 
upon  themes  with  which  your  profession  makes  you 
unpleasantly  familiar.  You  are  a  Christian  gentleman  ; 
and  may  God  bless  you  for  all  the  comfort  and  cour- 
age which  you  have  borne  to  a  thousand  beds  of  suffer- 


To  Dr.   Benjamin  Rufli  Jones.         285 

ing  and  dying,  for  all  the  pleasant  words  you  have 
spoken  to  the  tender  and  the  young,  and  for  the  excel- 
lent personal  example  that,  throughout  all  your  life  of 
ministry,  has  made  every  act  an  exhortation  to  noble 
endeavor  and  your  presence  a  constant  benediction  ! 

I  have  noticed,  in  my  intercourse  with  you,  your 
profound  respect  for  your  profession.  You  have  felt 
that  a  share  of  its  honor  was  in  your  keeping.  A  light 
word  spoken  of  it  has  been  felt  by  you  as  a  personal 
insult.  You  have  regarded  it  with  more  than  the  love 
of  a  lover ;  you  have  guarded  its  honor  with  more 
than  the  sensitiveness  and  chivalry  of  a  sou.  You 
have  believed  in  it,  and  honestly  labored  to  give  to  it 
a  high  place  in  public  esteem.  This  enthusiastic  love 
and  admiration  of  your  profession,  which  you  have 
brought  down,  without  abatement,  from  the  days  of 
early  study,  is  accompanied  by  the  most  devoted  fra- 
ternal feeling  toward  your  professional  brethren.  You 
guard  their  honor  jealously,  and  carry  more  than  your 
share  of  that  esprii  de  corps  which  holds  together  the 
band  of  physicians  of  which  you  are  the  best  member. 
This  love  of  your  profession,  and  this  regard  for  those 
who  practise  it,  lead  you,  on  all  occasions,  to  take  side 
against  the  public  in  such  medical  disputes  or  contests 
as  may  arise,  and  tempt  you  into  positions  which  com- 
promise your  candor  and  betray  your  conscience.  The 
only  place  in  which  you  have  shown  youi*self  to  the 


286 


Letters  to  the  Jonefes. 


public  as  a  weak  man  has  been  in  the  position  of  de- 
fender of  professional  incompetency — a  position  taken 
simply  through  an  extravagant  respect  for  your  pro- 
fession, and  an  incorrect  view  of  the  duty  which  you 
owe  to  its  practitioners.  A  professional  brother,  pros- 
ecuted for  mal-practice,  is  always  sure  that  you  will  do 
what  you  can  to  clear  him.  Any  notorious  case  of  in- 
competent medical  or  surgical  management,  which  the 
public  gets  hold  of,  and  tosses  about,  to  the  disgrace 
of  the  profession  and  the  physician  who  is  responsible 
for  it,  you  always  take  up  and  treat  tenderly.  People 
have  learned  that  you  will  not  patiently  hear  anything 
reflecting  upon  your  profession,  or  those  who  represent 
it.  This  is  all  true  with  relation  to  what  is  known  in 
the  world  as  "  the  regular  profession."  There  is  a 
"  regular  "  profession  and  there  is  an  "  irregular  "  pro- 
fession. I  do  not  know  that  your  charities  ever  ex- 
tended themselves  far  enough  to  embrace  any  member 
of  the  medical  fraternity  who  was  not  strictly  "  regu- 
lar." If  you  have  been  devotedly  friendly  to  all  who 
have  practised  in  the  regular  way,  you  have  been  un- 
compromisingly bitter  toward  all  who  have  practised 
in  an  irregular  way,  with  or  without  regular  diplomas. 
The  only  bitterness  I  ever  heard  from  your  lips  was 
poured  out  upon  the  head  of  some  "  quack,"  or  upon 
quackery  generally.  I  do  not  think  that  you  ever,  for 
a  moment,  admitted  to  yourself  that  an  irregular  physi- 


cian  had  cured  a  case  of  disease,  or  could  possibly  pre- 
scribe for  a  case  of  disease  intelligently.  You  would 
never  admit  the  most  intelligent  quack  that  lives  to  a 
professional  or  social  equality  with  yourself.  You 
have  only  contempt  for  the  whole  brood,  and  for  all 
who  have  anything  to  do  with  them.  You  cannot 
take  yourself  socially  away  from  many  whom  you  call 
dupes  to  quackery,  but,  in  your  heart,  you  partly  pity, 
partly  blame,  and  partly  despise  them  all. 

Now,  my  friend,  you  are  not  generally  an  unreason- 
able man,  and  I  insist  on  your  taking  good-naturedly  a 
few  things  I  have  to  say  to  you.  I  know  that  you  think 
I  have  no  right  to  touch  upon  a  subject  like  this,  but,  as 
a  representative  of  the  public,  I  know  I  have,  and  I  pro- 
pose to  do  it.  Is  the  profession  of  medicine,  practised 
in  the  most  regular  way,  by  the  most  regular  men,  so 
nearly  perfect  in  its  operations  and  results  as  to  deserve 
the  enthusiastic  respect  which  you  accord  to  it  ?  Do  you 
lind  medicine  so  uniformly  successful  and  so  reliable  in 
your  own  hands,  with  the  best  regularly  acquired  knowl- 
edge to  guide  you  in  its  exhibition,  that  you  can  have 
any  degree  of  certainty  that  you  are  doing  the  best  thing 
there  is  to  be  done  ?  Is  the  profession  of  medicine,  as 
it  is  understood  and  practised  in  this  country,  so  rich 
in  knowledge  that  it  can  afford  to  shut  out  of  itself 
such  truth  as  may  flow  to  it  through  irregujar  chan- 
nels ?  Is  it  so  successful  in  the  treatment  of  disease, 
11* 


288  Letters  to  the  Jonefes. 


and  so  much  more  successful  in  the  treatment  of  dis- 
ease than  various  forms  of  iiregular  practice,  that  it 
has  a  right  to  condemn  without  exception  or  qualifica- 
tion the  irregular  practitioner,  and  call  him  a  quack  ? 
Sir,  the  ai'rogance  of  the  position  which  medical  men 
assume,  in  this  and  other  countries,  is  an  insult  to  the 
spirit  of  the  age  and  the  intelligence  of  the  people,  and 
has  been  carried  to  the  extreme  of  absolute  inhumanity. 
I  have  known  a  regular  physician  approach  the  victim 
of  an  accident,  and,  when  his  immediate  services  were 
needed,  turn  away  from  the  wretch  without  lifting  a 
finger,  simply  because  he  saw  that  he  should  be  obliged 
to  work  in  company  Avith  an  irregular  physician.  I 
have  known  an  eminent  regular  physician  go  a  hundred 
miles  to  see  a  patient  lying  at  the  gates  of  death,  with 
a  dozen  hearts  ready  to  break  around  her,  and  turn  on 
his  heel  without  looking  upon  her  face,  and  leave  her 
to  die,  not  because  he  did  not  find  a  "  regular  "  physi- 
cian at  her  bedside,  as  a  regular  attendant,  but  because 
that  regular  physician  did  not  happen  to  belong  to  a 
certain  medical  society ! 

I  repeat  that  you  are  not  generally  unreasonable, 
and  I  should  like  to  know  wiiat  you  think  of  this.  I 
could  multiply  instances  like  these  that  I  have  given 
you;  and  what  do  they  prove?  To  my  mind  they 
prove  simply  that  esprit  de  corps  in  your  profession  has 
degenerated  into  contemptible  clannishness  and  parti- 


To  Dr.  Benjamin  Rufli  Jones.  289 

sanship.  I  doubt  whether  you  would  decidedly  con- 
demn the  acts  to  which  I  liave  alluded,  and  have  little 
question  that  you  would  be  guilty  of  similar  ones  on 
occasion.  You  and  your  professional  brethren  act  as 
if  you  believe  that  you  hold  the  exclusive  right  to  ad- 
minister medicine  and  get  pay  for  it,  as  if  you  possess 
exclusively  all  medical  knowledge  worth  possessing, 
and  as  if  you  mean  to  maintain  your  rights  against  all 
disputants,  by  any  available  means.  You  are  not  alone 
a  mutual  admiration  society  ;  you  are  a  mutual  insur- 
ance company.  You  mean  to  lord  it,  medically,  over 
the  community,  and  over  each  other.  No  man  of  your 
profession  can  step  outside  of  the  regular  field  to  ex- 
periment and  prosecute  inquiry  without  having  his 
heels  tripped  from  under  him.  Every  man  must  toe 
the  regular  crack,  or  he  is  at  once  socially  and  profes- 
sionally proscribed.  Now  I  confers  that  this  is  spirited 
and  positive  treatment,  but  it  strikes  me  to  be  out  of 
keeping  with  the  times,  and  inconsistent  with  the  good 
of  the  public.  Moreover,  what  you  call  quackery  and 
the  patronage  of  quackery,  thrives  on  this  treatment. 
The  freely  thinking  and  independent  men  of  your  pro- 
fession leave  you,  disgusted,  and  the  people  rebel. 

Why  should  you  and  your  associates  set  up  for  ex- 
clusive possessors  of  medical  wisdom  ?  You  know  very 
well  that  all  medicine  is  empiricism,  and  yoti  know 

that  medicine  has  made  advances  only  by  empiricism. 
13 


290  Letters  to  the  Jonefes. 

Your  true  policy  is  to  take  into  your  hands,  and  hon- 
estly and  faithfully  try,  all  those  remedies  which  have 
received  the  indorsement  of  any  considerable  number 
of  intelligent  men.  Your  duty  is  to  have  your  eyes 
constantly  open  for  improvement,  and  to  take  it  when 
you  can  get  it.  Almost  every  system  of  quackery 
imder  heaven  has  been  found  to  have  in  it  some  good 
— some  basis  of  truth — some  valuable  power  or  prin- 
ciple, which  it  has  always  been  the  business  of  the 
regular  profession  to  seek  out  and  incorporate  into 
their  system.  No  man  of  sense  believes  in  universal 
remedies ;  but  because  a  remedy  is  not  universal  it  is 
not,  therefore,  valueless.  Cold  water  cannot  cure  every 
ill  that  flesh  is  heir  to,  but  the  fact  that  it  can  cure  a 
great  many  of  them  is  just  as  well  established  as  any 
fact  in  natural  philosophy.  You,  however,  will  not 
use  cold  water,  because  cold  water  is  used  by  quacks, 
and  because  cold  water  is  claimed  by  some  quacks  to 
be  a  universal  remedy.  Preissnitz  was  a  quack — re- 
garded and  treated  by  the  medical  profession  as  a 
quack — but  the  world  has  recognized  him  as  a  philoso- 
pher and  a  benefactor,  and  after  the  prejudices  against 
him  shall  have  been  outlived,  that  which  he  has  done 
for  medicine  will  slowly,  and  under  protest,  be  adopted 
into  regular  practice. 

You  and  your  professional  brethren  have  a  very 
hearty  contempt  for  homoeopathy,  but  homcEopathy  is  to 


To  Dr.   Benjamin  Rufli  Jones.         291 


do  you  and  your  friends  good,  in  spite  of  yourselves. 
No  man  of  sense  believes  that  allopathy  is  all  wrong 
and  homoeopathy  all  right,  but  a  man  must  be  an  idiot 
to  suppose  that  a  system  of  medicine  which  has  won 
to  itself  large  numbers  of  skilful  men  from  the  regular 
profession,  and  secured  the  approval,  when  compared 
directly  with  regular  practice,  of  as  intelligent  people 
as  can  be  found  in  this  or  any  other  country,  has  noth- 
ing of  good  in  it.  For  you,  without  experiment,  with- 
out observation,  without  careful  study,  to  call  homoe- 
opathy a  system  of  unmitigated  quackery,  and  to  hold 
those  in  contempt  who  practise  and  patronize  it,  is  a 
piece  of  the  most  childish  arrogance.  This  is  neither 
the  way  of  true  science  nor  liberal  culture.  You  may 
be  measurably  certain  that  there  is  something  in  homoe- 
opathy worthy,  not  only  of  your  examination,  but  of 
incorporation  into  your  system  of  practice.  It  has 
already  modified  your  practice  while  you  have  been 
talking  and  acting  against  it.  You  are  not  exhibiting 
to-day  a  third  as  much  medicine  as  you  did  before 
homoeopathy  made  its  appearance.  It  has  killed  the  old 
system  of  large  dosing,  let  us  hope,  forever.  This  is  a 
fact ;  and  what  you  call  no  medicine  at  all  has  at  least 
shown  itself  to  be  better  than  too  much  medicine,  even 
when  administered  in  the  regular  way.  You  say  that 
a  homoeopathic  dose  cannot  affect  the  human  constitu- 
tion, in  any  appreciable  degree.    A  million  men  and 


292  Letters  to  the  Jonefes. 

women  stand  ready  to-day  to  swear  that,  according  to 
their  honest  belief  and  best  knowledge,  they  have 
themselves  been  sensibly  affected  by  homoeopathic 
doses,  and  that,  on  the  whole,  they  prefer  homoeo- 
pathic to  allopathic  practice  in  their  families,  judging 
from  a  long  series  of  results. 

Now,  what  are  you  going  to  do  with  facts  like 
these  ?  You  cannot  dismiss  them  with  a  contemptu- 
ous paragraph,  and  a  wave  of  the  hand,  and  maintain 
your  reputation  as  a  candid  man.  If  you  are  a  free 
man,  and  not  under  bondage  to  the  most  contemptible 
old  fogyism  that  the  world  ever  gave  birth  to,  you  will 
act  as  a  free  man.  You  will  permit  no  man  to  limit 
your  field  of  experiment  and  inquiry,  and  allow  no  so- 
ciety or  clique  to  prevent  you  from  extending  medical 
science  over  all  the  facts  of  medical  science,  wherever 
you  may  happen  to  find  them,  I  am  the  champion  of 
no  one  of  the  thousand  "  pathies  "  that  occupy  the  field 
of  irregular  practice,  and  I  have  alluded  to  two  of 
them  only  because  they  are  prominent.  I  address  you 
simply  as  a  catholic  searcher  after  truth ;  and  I  declare 
my  belief  that  the  regular  profession  of  medicine  has 
failed  to  keep  pace  with  other  professions — that  medi- 
cal science  has  lagged  behind  all  the  other  sciences  of 
equal  importance  to  mankind — simply  because  it  would 
not  accept  truth  when  it  has  been  associated  with  the 
error  and  the  pretension  that  is  so  apt  to  accompany 


To  Dr.  Benjamin  Rufli  Jones.  293 

the  advent  of  truth  in  every  field.  The  science  of 
medicine  embraces,  or  should  embrace,  all  the  facts  of 
medicine,  and  when  you,  or  your  friends,  proudly  de- 
cline to  entertain  a  fact  because  it  ^vas  discovered  by 
an  irregular  empiric,  you  are  not  only  false  to  science, 
but  false  to  humanity. 

You  cannot  but  notice  a  growing  tendency  in  the 
public  mind  to  break  away  from  the  regular  practice, 
and  to  embrace  some  of  the  numberless  forms  of  irreg- 
ular practice.  You  notice  this  with  pain,  and  so  do  I, 
because  I  know  that  if  the  regular  profession  were  to 
pursue  a  different  policy,  the  fact  would  be  otherwise. 
You  must  notice  with  peculiar  pain  that  this  defection 
is  not  confined  to  the  ignorant  and  the  superstitious, 
and  that,  more  and  more,  it  takes  from  you  the  intelli- 
gent and  the  learned.  Why  will  you  be  so  stupid  as 
not  to  see  that  this  waning  of  respect  for  the  regular 
practice  is  owing  to  the  bigotry  and  intolerance  of  the 
regular  practice  ?  You  assume  too  much — more  than 
you  can  carry.  You  assume  to  be  the  sole  possessors 
of  the  medical  wisdom  of  the  world.  Every  man  who 
does  not  practise  in  your  way,  though  he  may  have 
been  a  graduate  of  a  regular  medical  college,  you  as- 
sume the  privilege  of  condemning  as  a  quack ;  and  you 
deny  to  him  not  only  professional  but  social  position. 
You  place  all  matters  of  professional  etiquette  before 
the  simplest  humanities,  and  intend  by  your  policy  to 


294  Letters  to  the  Jonefes. 

• 

coerce  the  public  into  your  suj^port.  The  rules  of 
your  associations  are  intended  to  hold  their  members 
to  the  regular  field,  to  compel  them  to  fight  all  irregu- 
lar practitioners  out  of  the  field,  and  to  force  the  pub- 
lic into  the  exclusive  support  of  the  regular  practice. 
It  is  a  thorough  despotism,  and  intended  to  be  ;  and  is 
so  discordant  with  the  free  spirit  of  the  time  that  the 
public  rebel,  and  many  are  driven  into  extremes  of  op- 
position. 

Do  you  ask  me  if  I  am  a  medical  "  Eclectic  ?  " 
No  ;  I  am  nothing  of  the  kind.  I  am  a  catholic,  with 
every  prejudice,  predilection,  and  sympathy  of  my 
mind  clinging  to  the  regular  practice.  I  have  a  con- 
tempt which  I  cannot  utter  for  all  these  "  completed 
systems"  of  irregular  practice,  which  are  built  upon 
some  newly-discovered  or  newly-developed  fact  in  medi- 
cine. I  have  only  contempt  for  the  broad  claims  of 
quackery  in  every  field.  When  a  man  tells  me  that 
the  regular  practice  is  murder,  and  that  drugs  are 
never  administered  in  allopathic  doses  with  benefit,  I 
know  simply  that  he  is  a  fool.  And  when  an  adherent 
of  the  allopathic  school  tells  me  that  such  and  such 
things  cannot  be,  in  the  range  of  irregular  practice, 
which  I  know  have  been  and  are,  I  know  he  is  a  fool. 

I  write  in  my  present  strain  to  you,  because  I  be- 
lieve that  through  what  is  called  the  regular  practice 
the  future  substantial  advances  of  medicine  are  to  be 


To  Dr.  Benjamin  Rufli  Jones.  295 

made.  Medical  science  can  only  go  about  as  fast  as 
you  permit  it  to  go.  You  are  too  well  organized,  you 
have  too  many  schools,  you  have  too  much  power,  to 
permit  any  outside  organization  to  get  the  lead,  and  to 
become  the  standard  authority  of  the  world.  Hy  doc- 
trine is  that  you  should  become  the  solvent  of  all  the 
systems,  and  not  the  uniform  and  bitter  opponent  of 
everything  that  claims  to  be  a  system.  You  should 
make  your  system  one  with  universal  science,  one  with 
humanity,  and  not  build  a  wall  around  it.  When  a 
man  gets  so  bigoted  that  he  can  say  that  a  thing  can- 
not be  true,  because  it  is  Hot  according  to  his  system, 
he  has  become  too  narrow  for  the  intelligent  practice 
of  any  profession. 

The  church  is  getting  ahead  of  the  medical  profes- 
sion, very  decidedly.  It  is  but  a  few  years  ago  that 
Christians  of  different  sects  had  just  as  little  toleration 
for  each  other  as  the  different  sects  of  medical  men 
have  now.  There  was  one  of  these  sects  that  was 
"  the  regular  thing,'*  and  those  who  de|)arted  from  it 
were  made  to  suffer  socially.  It  was  in  this  coimtry, 
in  a  degree,  as  it  is  in  England  now.  There  is  the  es- 
tablished church — the  recognized  church — and  all  the 
Protestants  outside  of  it  are  independents.  These  in- 
dependents are  looked  down  upon  socially,  and  regard- 
ed with  a  contempt  quite  as  profound  as  that  which 
you  feel  for  "  quacks  "  and  their  "  dupes  ;  "  yet  it  is 


coming  to  be  understood  in  England  that  the  substan- 
tial Christian  progress  of  the  time  is  being  made  by 
the  despised  independents,  and  it  is  felt  that  by  their 
influence  they  are  working  a  revolution  in  the  estab- 
lished church  which  will,  at  no  distant  day,  give  to  it  a 
new  vitality  and  a  fresh  impetus.  You  may  fight  this 
revolution  in  medicine,  but  it  is  coming,  and  when  it 
shall  come,  you  will  find  that  what  you  call  quackery 
will  fall  before  it. 

You,  possibly,  suppose  that  there  are  no  intelligent 
and  scientific  men  engaged  in  irregular  medical  prac- 
tice. If  there  are  not,  it  is  the  fault  of  your  own 
schools,  for  they  have  been  educated  in  them  by  thou- 
sands ;  and  the  practical  point  at  which  I  aim  is  this : 
that  you  and  they  shall  meet  as  scientific  men,  and  that 
as  scientific  men  you  and  they  shall  reveal  the  results 
of  experiment  and  inquiry  in  your  various  fields  of  ob- 
servation. I  would  have  you  win  from  them  what 
they  have  learned :  I  would  have  them  win  from  you 
what  you  have  learned.  I  would  have  you  and  them 
do  this  in  behalf  of  medical  science,  and  in  the  interest 
of  humanity.  Until  you  become  willing  to  do  this, 
you  must  occupy  the  position  of  despots  and  bigots — a 
position  which  no  profession,  with  science  in  one  hand 
and  humanity  in  the  other,  can  afford  to  occupy.  At 
present,  you  are  creating  quackery  and  stimulating 
quacks  at  a  rate  which  no  other  policy  could  possibly 


To  Dr.   Benjamin  Rufli  Jones.  297 

effect.  The  means  which  you  and  your  professional 
brethren  are  employing  to  keep  the  medical  practice 
of  the  country  in  your  hands,  are  certainly  -working  to 
defeat  your  object.  You  must  be  more  catholic  and 
more  tolerant,  or  your  profession,  and  every  human 
being  interested  in  it,  must  suffer  a  range  of  evil  con- 
sequences which  I  cannot  measure.  The  position  which 
you  assume  of  holding  a  monopoly  of  all  the  medical 
wisdom,  all  the  medical  science,  all  the  poAver  of  intel- 
ligent observation  of  disease,  is  a  standing  insult  to  the 
age,  and  is  certain  to  be  punished. 

I  am  aware  that  I  am  quite  likely  to  be  misunder- 
stood and  misconstrued  by  you,  my  friend,  and  by 
those  of  your  professional  brethren  who  may  read  this 
letter.  You  have  been  so  much  in  the  habit  of  calling 
all  irregular  practitioners  quacks  and  charlatans  and 
mountebanks — of  looking  upon  them  all  as  either  ig- 
norant or  knavish,  or  both  together,  that  you  will  be 
quite  apt  to  charge  me  with  favoring  charlatanry  and 
quackery.  I  ask  you  to  associate  with  no  knave  or  ig- 
norant pretender.  No  man  can  more  heartily  despise 
a  pretender  in  medicine  than  I  do,  either  in  or  out  of 
the  regular  profession  ;  and,  between  you  and  me,  tlie 
question  is  yet  to  be  decided  as  to  which  side  holds 
the  preponderance  of  ignorance  and  pretension.  As 
between  licensed  and  unlicensed  ignorance  and  preten- 
sion, I  have  no  choice.     I  simply  ask  you  to  admit  the 


298  Letters  to  the  Jonefes. 

fact  that  there  are  just  as  good,  true,  scientific,  honor- 
able, and  able  men  outside  of  the  regular  profession  as 
there  are  in  it ;  that  all  improvements  in  medicine 
must  come  through  empiricism  ;  that  medical  science  is 
one  in  its  interests,  aims,  and  ends,  and  that  the  people 
have  a  right  to  demand  that  the  profession  •which  has 
its  most  precious  interests  in  charge,  shall  not  place  be- 
fore those  interests  its  own  partisan  purposes  and  preju- 
dices. I  wish  to  have  you  see  how  utterly  unworthy 
of  you,  personally,  is  your  professional  bigotry,  and  to 
induce  you  to  do  for  your  profession  what  you  are  so 
ready  to  do  in  all  the  fields  of  popular  reform. 


THE    TWENTY-FIRST    LETTER. 

(To  ^iogciics  ^oncs* 

CONCERKIKG  JT/S  VISPOSITIoy  TO   AVOID  SOCIETY. 

ISOMETDIES  think  that  I  am  the  only  person 
who  understands  and  appreciates  you,  and  the  fact 
I  take  to  be  flattering  to  ray  discrimination,  for  all 
the  fools  believe  you  to  be  a  fool.  There  are  compara- 
tively few  who  know  that  behind  your  impassive  spec- 
tacles there  are  eyes  full  of  kindliness  and  intelligence, 
and  that  your  shy  manner  and  reticent  mood  cover  a 
heart  that  longs  for  love  and  a  wealth  of  conscious  in- 
tellectual power  that  would  rejoice  in  recognition. 
Few  care  to  study  you,  but  everybody  wonders  why 
you  shun  society.  Few  go  toward  you,  because  you  go 
toward  nobody.  I  never  should  have  known  you  if  I 
had  not,  by  pure  force  of  will,  penetrated  the  armor 
of  cool  indifference  in  which  you  have  encased  your- 


300  Letters  to  the  Joneies. 

self.  I  was  determined  to  find  you,  and  I  found  you. 
I  was  not  surprised  to  discover  in  you  the  average 
amount  of  humanity,  in  its  common  powers  and  proper- 
ties, and  more  than  the  average  amount  of  sensitiveness 
and  gentleness.  So  soon  as  you  saw  that  I  understood 
you,  you  surrendered  yourself  to  me  gladly,  and  we  held 
communion  with  one  another,  heart  to  heart. 

The  first  cause  that  operated  to  make  you  a  solitary 
man  was  a  sense  of  your  incongruity  with  the  ele- 
ments of  society,  or  with  the  elements  of  such  so- 
ciety as  was  around  you.  You  looked  upon  the 
young,  and  saw  them  absorbed  by  frivolities  that  had 
no  charm  for  you — engaged  in  pursuits  which  did  not 
interest  you.  There  was  but  little  animal  life  in  you, 
and  no  overflow  of  animal  spirits  ;  so  you  had  none  of 
the  spirit  of  play ;  and  you  could  take  no  pleasure  in 
the  insignificant  things  with  which  the  spirit  of  play 
interested  itself.  Whenever  you  were  thrown  among 
those  of  your  own  years,  you  entered  scenes  that  had  no 
meaning  to  you,  so  that  you  were  always-oppressed  Avith 
the  feeling  that  you  were  out  of  place.  You  knew  that 
your  companions  interfered  with  your  pleasure,  and  natu- 
rally thought  that  you  interfered  with  theirs,  forgetting 
that  they  were  thoughtless  while  you  were  thoughtful. 

This  consciousness  of  incongruity  could  not  long  be 
entertained  in  your  sensitive  nature  without  very 
serious  self  questionings.     You  began  to  ask  yourself 


To  Diogenes  Jones.  301 

why  it  was  that  you  were  an  exception  to  the  rule  that 
prevailed  around  you ;  and  the  more  you  questioned 
yourself,  the  more  sensitive  you  became,  until  there 
was  not  a  feature  of  your  face,  or  a  part  of  your  frame, 
or  a  peculiarity  of  your  speech  and  personal  bearing, 
that  was  not  inquired  of  concerning  the  matter.  The 
result  was  an  impulse  to  hide  yourself  from  observa- 
tion, and  great  reluctance  to  enter  the  society  to  which 
your  life  naturally  introduced  you.  Your  conscious- 
ness that  there  was  something  peculiar  in  your  tem- 
perament was  a  hinderance  to  you — it  made  you  awk- 
ward and  stiff.  While  you  felt  yourself  to  be  the  pos- 
sessor of  more  brains  and  more  knowledge  than  most 
of  the  young  men  around  you,  you  despaired  of  appear- 
ing to  know  anything.  You  had  not  the  secret  of  self- 
possession  and  confident  bearing.  Many  were  your 
struggles  with  yourself  at  first,  but  at  length  you  be- 
came habitually  a  solitary  man.  You  lost  the  small 
measure  of  confidence  which  nature  originally  gave 
you,  lost  your  familiarity  with  the  forms  of  social  inter- 
course, almost  lost  your  self-resjDect.  You  could  not 
bear  to  be  looked  at,  or  spoken  to.  You  retired 
into  yourself,  and  sought  in  self-communion  or  in  stu- 
dious pursuits  for  the  satisfaction  which  your  nature 
craved. 

I  have  already  suggested  the   character   of  that 
poverty   of  constitution  which   has   made   you   what 


302  Letters  to  the  Jonefes. 

you  are.  You  are  not  a  thoroughly  healthy  man. 
Either  you  are  very  weak  naturally,  with  no  ovei-flow 
of  animal  life,  or,  by  heavy  drafts  lapon  your  nervous 
system,  you  have  expended  that  life.  Work,  or  study, 
or  both  together,  have  exhausted  your  stock  of  vitality, 
so  that  you  have  only  just  enough  for  the  necessary 
uses  of  life.  Until  men  and  women  rise  to  a  degree 
of  cultivation  which  few  reach,  it  is  not  to  be  denied 
that  social  life  is  made  up  of,  or  is  carried  on  by,  the 
aggregate  overflow  of  the  animal  life  of  society.  It 
may  be  a  humiliating  consideration,  but  it  is  true,  that 
where  there  is  none  of  the  spirit  of  play  there  is  no 
social  life  that  is  worth  the  name.  Youth  is  generally 
social  because  it  is  playful ;  and  as  youth  goes  on  to 
middle  life  and  old  age,  it  generally  becomes  less  social 
because  it  becomes  less  playful.  Playfulness  is  the 
offspring  of  animal  spirits.  There  are  some  men  and 
women  who  bubble  throughout  their  whole  lives  with 
this  overflow,  and  are  always  cheerful  and  charming 
companions.  There  are  others  who  either  never  have 
it,  or  who  lose  it  by  expenditure  in  work  or  study,  and 
who,  as  a  consequence,  become  taciturn  and  imsocial. 
Lambs  in  a  pasture  will  run  races  in  delightful  groups, 
and  frolic  by  the  hour ;  but  the  dams  that  nurse  them 
and  seek  all  day  among  the  rocks  for  food  manifest  no 
sympathy  with  them.  In  the  healthy  constitution,  put 
to  healthy  work,  there  seems  to  be  a  stock  of  animal 


To  Diogenes  Jones.  803 

life  and  spirits  sufficient  for  the  individual,  and  a  super- 
abundant amount  which  is  intended  for  social  pur- 
poses. You  may  look  the  world  over,  and  you  will 
find  that  all  men  and  all  races  of  men  in  whom  this 
overflow  of  animal  life  is  a  characteristic  are  social, 
and  that  aU  men  and  races  of  men  not  characterized  by 
this  overflow  are  unsocial. 

Overflowing  animal  spirits  form  the  stream  on 
which  the  social  life  of  the  world  floats.  If  other  evi- 
dence of  the  fact  were  needed,  than  that  which  lies 
upon  the  surface,  it  might  be  found  in  the  eflTorts  to 
produce  an  artificial  overflow  at  convivial  parties.  A 
company  of  weary  men  sit  down  to  pass  an  evening 
together  over  a  sui)per.  They  come  together  for  the 
simple  purpose  of  enjoying  a  gay  and  social  time. 
They  know  very  well  that,  independent  of  the  contents 
of  certain  bottles,  they  have  no  power  of  social  enjoy- 
ment of  the  kind  they  seek.  They  wish  to  bring  back 
the  hilarity  of  youth,  the  carelessness  of  youth,  the  over- 
flowing joyousness  of  youth  ;  but  this  they  cannot  do  be- 
cause their  animal  life  is  expended.  So  they  get  up  the 
best  imitation  they  can  of  the  departed  motive  power, 
and  a  very  sorry  one  it  is.  When  the  artificial  stimulant 
has  worked  its  work,  the  company  is  social  enough,  and 
hilarious  enough,  after  a  fashion,  but  the  fashion  is  a  dis- 
astrous one.  It  will  answer,  however,  as  a  proof  of  the 
proposition  that  in  overflowing  animal  spirits  is  to  be 


304  Letters  to  the  Jonefes. 

found  the  medium  of  social  intercourse — the  menstruum 
of  all  social  materials.  Even  when  social  life  starts 
from  a  higher  source — from  the  overflow  of  intellectual 
life — it  is  greatly  assisted  by  animal  spirits,  and  those 
men  and  women  in  whom  there  is  an  overflow  of  both 
animal  and  intellectual  life  are,  socially,  the  most  valu- 
able and  attractive  that  the  world  contains. 

You  must  have  noticed,  even  in  your  limited  obser- 
vation, how  much  animal  spirits  will  do  in  making  a 
man — very  inconsequential  otherwise — socially  valu- 
able. You  must  remember  young  men  and  women 
with  ordinary  powers  of  intellect  and  not  more  than 
ordinary  personal  attractions,  who  were  deemed  the 
life  of  every  party  they  entered,  simply  because  they 
had  an  overflow  of  animal  spirits.  If  they  were  awk- 
ward nobody  minded  it — least  of  all  did  they  care  for 
it.  They  brought  society  a  vessel  full  of  life,  and  so- 
ciety was  grateful  for  it.  You  took  into  this  same 
society,  perhaps,  a  mind  well  stored  with  learning,  and 
natural  gifts  superior  to  any,  yet  the  empty  pates 
amused  everybody,  and  set  everybody  talkmg,  and 
furnished  the  means  and  medium  of  social  communion, 
while  you  sat  with  your  tongue  tied,  or  retired  in  dis- 
gust. Now  imagine  yourself  possessed  of  the  abound- 
ing animal  life  which  distinguishes  some  of  your  ac- 
quaintances, united  with  the  intellectual  power  and 
culture  Avhich  distinguish  yourself,  and  it  will  be  easy 


to  see  that  nothing  could  restrain  you  from  society. 
The  ovei-flowing  man  must  play,  and  he  "will  always 
seek  somebody  to  play  with.  If  he  does  not  under- 
stand the  conventionalities  of  society  and  the  forms 
and  manners  of  social  intercourse,  he  will  good-natured- 
ly blunder  over  them.  He  will  be  social,  because  he 
must  expend  that  which  is  in  him  in  play. 

I  am  aware  that  your  case  is  not  like  all  those  which 
result  in  self-exclusion  from  society,  but  I  believe  that 
no  case  of  such  self-exclusion  can  be  found  in  any  man 
who  possesses  a  healthy  overflow  of  animal  spiiits.  I 
find  that  the  disposition  to  shim  society  exists  very 
widely  among  students  and  studious  men.  I  believe  it  is 
the  truth  that  most  authors  and  writers  avoid  society,  or 
feel  decidedly  disinclined  to  it.  Men  who  thus  confine 
themselves  within  doors  and  exliaust  their  nervous 
energy  in  thought  and  composition,  and  with  no  vigor 
from  the  open  air,  are  necessarily  without  an  overflow 
of  animal  spirits  ;  and  they  Avill  find  themselves  disin- 
clined to  society  exactly  in  proportion  to  their  sense  of 
exhaustion.  Not  unfrequently  young  women  who  have 
been  distinguished  for  their  love  of  society  and  their 
adaptedness  to  it  lose  both  on  becoming  mothers  of 
families,  and  never  enter  society  again  as  active  mem- 
bers. So  it  seems  that  just  as  soon  as  the  animal  life 
sinks  below  a  certain  level,  the  disposition  to  play 
naturally  ceases,  and  the  motive  to  enter  society  dies. 


306  Letters  to  the  Jonefes. 

And  now  you  ask  me  for  the  remedy.  You  ask 
me  a  hard  question,  and  yet  I  believe  that  there  is  an 
answer  to  it,  though  a  fresh  and  overflowing  supj^ly 
of  animal  life  is  not  to  be  had  for  the  asking.  Un- 
doubtedly something  can  be  done  by  attending  to  the 
conditions  of  a  vigorous  animal  life.  Undoubtedly  a 
life  in  the  open  air  among  men  would  work  a  great 
change  in  you,  but  circumstances  will  not  permit  this, 
perhaps,  and  you  seek  for  the  next-best  course. 

I  have  said  that  overflowing  animal  spirits  form 
the  stream  on  which  the  social  life  of  the  world  floats. 
To  extend  the  figure,  I  may  say  that  on  this  stream 
some  row  while  others  ride,  and  the  relative  propor- 
tion  of  rowers  and  riders  does  not  vary  essentially  from 
that  which  prevails  on  more  material  streams.  The  row- 
ers are  in  the  minority — the  riders  are  in  the  majority, 
and  if  you  cannot  row  you  must  be  content  to  ride,  for 
it  is  essential  to  your  spiritual  health  that  you  enjoy 
the  air  and  sunlight  and  change  which  only  the  pas- 
sengers upon  this  stream  can  win.  If  you  possess  no 
superabundance  of  animal  life,  you  must  be  content  to 
breathe  the  atmosphere  furnished  by  others.  You 
may  not  be  much  interested  in  general  society,  and  so- 
ciety may  not  be  very  much  interested  in  you,  at  first, 
but  I  am  sure  that  if  you  enter  it  and  persistently  re- 
main in  it,  you  will  not  fail  to  discover  points  of  sym- 
pathy between   yourself  and  others   from  which  re- 


freshing  and  enriching  influences  will  be  recei^'ed  by 
you.  Society  will  take  you  away  from  your  books 
and  break  up  your  reveries,  and  that  is  precisely  what 
is  needed.  You  need  to  be  drawn  out  from  yourself 
and  made  to  contribute  something  to  the  life  and 
wealth  of  others. 

If  directly  entering  general  society  seem  too  diiS- 
cult  or  too  distasteful,  there  are  various  indirect  meth- 
ods of  entering  it  which  are  entirely  practicable,  and 
which  need  not  be  disagreeable.  Enter  some  field  of 
charitable  effort,  or  public  enterjjrise.  Whenever  a 
man  undertakes  any  effort  for  the  good  of  the  public, 
whether  in  the  broad  field  of  Christian  charity  or  the 
equally  broad  field  of  public  improvement,  he  at  once 
comes  into  sympathy  with  a  certain  number  of  men 
and  women  who  give  him  a  cordial  welcome.  It  is 
only  a  point  of  sympathy  that  is  needed  to  make  you 
feel  at  home  in  society.  Society  may  be  very  attractive 
to  you,  though  you  have  but  little  poAver  to  contrib- 
ute to  its  life,  provided  only  that  you  find  in  it  those 
with  whom  you  have  been  throAvn  into  sympathy. 
Think  of  the  effect  upon  your  mind  of  meeting  at  the 
bedside  of  some  sad  sufferer,  or  in  some  hovel  of  the 
poor,  a  man  on  the  same  errand  of  mercy  that  took  you 
there.  You  know  that  you  would  feel  immediately  the 
foi-mation  of  a  tie  of  sjTnpathy  between  yourself  and 
him — would  feel  that  he  had  reached  your  heart,  that 


308  Letters  to  the  Jonefes. 


you  had  found  his,  and  that  thenceforward  you  could 
meet  with  mutual  esteem.  Think  of  the  effect  of  la- 
boring side  by  side  with  men  and  women  in  any  work 
of  Christian  reform,  or  public  education,  or  literary 
culture.  All  work  of  this  character,  pursued  in  the 
company  of  others,  establishes  sympathy  between  the 
co-workers,  and  you  have  only  to  engage  in  it  to  weave 
around  yourself  a  net  of  social  attractions  that  must 
gradually  draw  you  out  from  yourself. 

You  must  contrive  some  scheme  for  meeting  society 
half-way.     You  are  unlike  most  men  who  shun  society 
if  you  do  not  feel  that  it  does  not  quite  do  its  duty  to 
you,  in  not  coming  after  you.     You  retire  into  your- 
self, you  take  no  pains  to  show  that  you  possess  the 
slightest  social  value,  you  do  not  even  exhibit  that 
interest  in  humanity  generally,  or  in  the  commimity  in 
which  you  live,  that  leads  you  to  efforts  on  their  be- 
half, yet,  somehow,  you  feel  that  society  ought  to  find 
you  out,  and  bring  you  out,  and  make  itself  agreeable 
and  valuable  to  you.     You  may  rest  assured  that  so- 
ciety will  never  do  any  such  thing.     I  know  that  you 
have  no  native  impulse  to  social  communion — that  the 
spirit  of  play  about  which  I  have  talked  is  gone  out  of 
you  even  if  you  ever  possessed  it — but  that  which  most 
men  do  by  impulse  or  natural  desire,  you  must  do  by 
direct  purpose,  and  as  a  matter  of  duty.     And  you 
must  do  this  at  once.     The  penalty  of  failure  is  the 


To  Diogenes  Jones.  309 

gradual  dwarfing  of  yourself  and  the  sacrifice  of  all 
power  to  influence  others.  You  have  a  laudable  desire 
to  be  something  and  to  do  something  in  the  world,  and 
know  that  you  have  within  you  the  ability  necessary  to 
accomplish  your  purposes,  but  without  social  sympathy, 
you  will  never  know  what  to  do,  or  how  to  do  for  the 
world,  and  the  world  will  find  it  impossible  to  under- 
stand and  receive  you. 


THE   TWENTY-SECOND   LETTER. 

f  0  Saul  p.  lows. 

CONCERNma  HIS  HABIT  OF  LOOKING   VPOIT  THE  DARK 
SIDE  OF  THINGS. 

SUPPOSE  you  imagine  that  I  am  about  to  endeav- 
or to  prove  to  you  that  there  is  no  dark  side  to  the 
things  of  this  life,  or  none  worth  your  attention.  You 
are  mistaken.  Thfere  is  a  dark  side  to  every  man's  life, 
and  to  the  world's  life,  which  I  do  not  think  it  either  pos- 
sible or  desirable  to  ignore — a  dark  side  that  is  legiti- 
mately a  subject  of  melancholy  contemplation.  We  live 
in  a  world  of  want  and  disease,  of  sin  and  sorrow,  of 
disaster  and  death.  Our  souls,  that  think  and  feel,  that 
fear  and  hope,  that  despair  and  aspire,  are  associated 
A\^th  bodies  which  are  subject  to  debasing  appetites, 
to  derangement,  to  decay,  to  a  thousand  modes  of  suf- 
fering incident  to  animal  being.  No  mind  of  ordinary 
BcnsibUity  can  look  upon,  or  ought  to  look  upon,  the 


To  Saul  M.  Jones.  311 

evils  which  throng  the  path  of  humanity  without  deep 
sadness.  No  man  of  humane  instincts  can  realize,  even 
in  an  imperfect  and  faint  degree,  how  the  earth  seethes 
with  corruption,  and  moral  evil  vies  with  physical  dis- 
organization and  decay  in  the  work  of  darkness  and 
destruction,  without  emotions  of  mingled  sorrow  and 
horror — emotions  that  cannot  be  relieved  by  the  en- 
couraging reflection  that  the  future  promises  an  early 
dissipation  of  the  cloud  that  overshadows  the  world. 

There  are  several  reasons,  however,  why  neither 
you  nor  any  person  should  dwell  constantly  upon  the  evil 
that  is  in  the  world.  The  principal  one  is  that  no  one 
can  regard  it  perpetually,  with  anything  like  a  realizing 
comprehension  of  that  which  he  contemplates,  without 
morbid  depression  or  absolute  insanity.  A  man's  duty 
to  humanity,  no  less  than  his  duty  to  himself,  demands 
that  he  shall  not  depress  his  vital  tone  and  weaken  his 
courage  by  the  contemijlation  of  evils  for  which  he  is 
not  responsible,  and  for  the  cure  or  relief  of  which  he 
needs  all  the  strength  he  possesses,  or  will  find  it  pos- 
sible to  win.  I  suppose  the  angels  of  heaven,  with 
their  quick  sympathies,  might  make  themselves  most 
unhappy  over  the  woes  of  the  world,  and  fill  their 
holy  dwelling-place  Avith  lamentations,  but  I  do  not 
believe  they  do,  or  that  they  ought  to.  The  woes  of 
the  world  are  not  j^ut  upon  one  man's  shoulders,  and 
though  we  may  feel  them  keenly  we  have  no  moral 


312  Letters  to  the  Jonefes. 


right  to  permit  them  to  affect  us  farther  than  to  make 
our  hearts  tender  in  sympathy,  and  our  hands  active  in 
ministry.  If  dwelling  upon  the  woes  of  others  had 
power  in  it  to  do  them  good,  there  would  be  excuse 
for  it,  but  it  is  the  idlest  of  all  painful  indulgences. 
No  one  is  benefited  by  it,  while  your  own  misery,  thus 
awakened,  is  added  to  that  which  aAvakes  it,  and  the 
world  is  only  the  more  miserable  for  your  misery. 
Thus  your  dejection  is  not  only  harmful  to  yourself, 
but  useless  to  the  world.  It  is  a  gratuitous  addition 
to  the  aggregate  of  human  woe,  and  widens  the  field 
of  misery  for  other  eyes. 

But  these  remarks  have  comparatively  little  prac- 
tical application  to  yourself,  or  to  others  prone  like 
yourself  to  look  upon  the  dark  side  of  things.  The  men 
and  women  are  few  who  are  permanently  depressed  by 
the  habitual  contemplation  of  Avoes  that  do  not  person- 
ally concern  themselves.  I  have  heard  of  persons 
driven  hopelessly  insane  by  a  contemplation  of  the 
destiny  of  wicked  men,  and  of  others  whose  horror 
over  human  condition  has  plunged  them  into  Atheism, 
or  some  other  dark  form  of  unbelief,  but  these  are  rare 
cases.  Almost  all  cases  of  permanent  dejection  and 
of  habitual  refuge  in  shadow  are  the  result  of  personal 
trials,  or  of  personal  peciiliarities.  Various  causes  have 
contributed  to  make  you  a  dejected  man.  I  think 
there  is  a  natural  lack  of  hopefulness  in  your  constitu- 


tion.  There  are  great  differences  among  men  in  this 
matter.  Some,  with  naturally  hopeful  spirits,  live 
through  a  hard  life,  and  see  many  bitter  days,  yet  pre- 
serve their  buoyancy  and  their  hopefulness  to  the  last. 
Others,  with  a  comparatively  easy  life  and  surrounded 
by  pleasant  circumstances,  will  grow  sadder  and  sadder 
until  they  sink  into  the  grave.  Natural  temperament  is 
all-powerful  to  make  some  desponding  under  all  cir- 
cumstances, and  others  cheerful  under  any  circum- 
stances. Something  of  your  condition  is  due,  I  do  not 
doubt,  to  this  native  deficiency,  though  I  do  not  think 
this  deficiency  so  great  as  to  be  the  responsible  cause 
of  your  calamity. 

Disease  is  not  unfrequently  the  cause  of  much  of 
the  permanent  dejection  that  afiiicts  mankind.  Hypo- 
chondria is  not  uncommon,  and  this  is  a  genuine  dis- 
ease that  comes  under  the  cognizance  and  treatment 
of  the  physicians  as  legitimately  as  rheumatism,  or 
any  other  disease.  And  there  may  exist  a  general  de- 
pression of  the  vital  energies  in  consequence  of  age,  or 
the  disease  of  some  of  the  organs  concerned  in  diges- 
tion, whose  legitimate  result  is  depression  of  spirits. 
I  cannot  tell  how  much  your  condition  is  attributable 
to  causes  of  this  character,  but  I  do  not  doubt  that 
disease  has  its  place  among  the  causes.  Still,  neither 
natural  temperament  nor  disease  have  worked  this  work 

alone.     They  have  done  something  in  furnishing  favor- 
14 


314  Letters  to  the  Jonefes. 

able  conditions  for  the  operation  of  other  causes,  with- 
out being  very  active  themselves.  I  have  ilever  been 
able  to  find  in  your  lack  of  hopefulness,  or  in  any  dis- 
ease that  has  been  permanently  upon  you,  the  reason 
for  that  disposition  to  look  upon  the  dark  side  of 
things  which  has  become  the  habit  of  your  life.  You 
are  probably  not  aware  of  this  habit.  You  are  prob- 
ably not  aware  that  you  never  utter  a  hearty  laugh, 
that  you  never  confess  to  a  moment  of  genuine  enjoy- 
ment, that  you  are  never  willing  to  acknowledge  that 
there  is  anything  encouraging  in  your  life  and  lot,  that 
you  have  for  years  persistently  believed  your  health  to 
be  in  a  failing  condition,  that  you  utterly  refuse  to 
admit  that  there  is  any  palliation  of  your  misery  in  any 
event  that  affects  you.  Your  friends  are  aware  that 
you  are  in  very  comfortable  circumstances,  that  not  a 
want  is  unsupplied,  that  love  surrounds  you  with  its 
tireless  ministries,  and  that,  somehow,  life  has  many 
charms  for  you  ;  but  you  wonder  at  their  perverseness, 
or  attempt  in  various  ways  to  convince  them  of  their 
mistake. 

I  have  spoken  of  your  dejection  as  a  habit,  and  I 
think  it  is  one,  which  a  sufficient  power  and  effort  of 
will  can  break  up.  I  do  not  know,  indeed,  but  you 
have  lost  this  power  of  will  in  a  measure,  but  I 
cannot  think  that  it  is  entirely  gone.  You  seem  to 
have  plenty  of  reason  and  a  sufficiency  of  will  with 


To  Saul  M.  Jones.  315 

relation  to  other  subjects ;  and  if  you  could  have  the 
disposition  to  apply  both  to  this,  you  could  break  up 
your  unhappy  habit,  I  do  not  doubt.  You  have  a  habit 
of  watchfulness  against  evil,  as  if  you  did  not  intend 
that  Providence  should  ever  catch  you  napping.  You 
guard  yourself  equally  against  joy,  as  if  afraid  of  being 
happier  than  you  have  any  right  to  be.  For  many 
years,  you  have  kept  a  look-out  for  death,  determined 
not  to  be  taken  when  off  guard.  This  watchfulness 
against  evil  and  against  joy,  has  been  maintained  till 
it  has  become  the  habit  of  your  life,  and  made  you  a 
miserable  slave. 

Far  be  it  from  me  to  deny  that  you  have  suffered 
severely  by  sickness,  by  early  struggles  with  poverty, 
and  by  the  loss  of  those  who  were  near  and  dear  to 
you.  Indeed,  the  blows  of  Providence  have  been 
neither  few  nor  lightly  inflicted  ;  but  they  have  been 
blows  for  which  a  kind  Father  has  provided  abundant 
balm.  No  shame  has  befallen  you.  No  dishonor  has 
come  to  you.  Nothing  has  happened  to  you  strange 
to  the  lot  of  the  hundreds  of  cheerful  men  whom  you 
meet.  I  do  not  doubt  that  these  blows  bent  you  as 
grief  always  bends,  but  there  was  no  sufficient  reason 
for  their  breaking  you.  They  were  not  the  expression 
of  infinite  displeasure,  and  were  not  intended  to  fill 
your  life  wnth  gloom.  Nay,  you  profess  to  believe 
that  all  these  precious  lost  ones  of  yours  ai'e  in  heaven, 


316  Letters  to  the  Jonefes. 

and  that  soon  you  shall  meet  them  there.  I  think  you 
are  thoroughly  honest  in  this  belief,  and  that  even  your 
griefs  cannot  be  held  accountable  for  your  habit  of 
looking  upon  the  dark  side  of  things,  and  your  per- 
sistent discontent. 

I  look  farther  back  than  grief  for  the  causes  of 
your  sadness  and  deeper  than  disease.  I  believe  that 
the  real  and  responsible  cause  of  your  dejection  is  the 
religious  training  of  your  early  life,  and  the  ideas 
which  you  now  entertain  of  God  and  of  duty.  God 
has  never  been  to  you  an  infinitely  affectionate  Father, 
to  whom  you  have  been  willing  to  give  yourself  up  in 
perfect  trust,  I  do  not  question  the  honesty  of  your 
reverence  for  Him,  or  the  purity  of  your  Avorship  of 
Him,  but  your  fear  of  Him  is  of  such  a  nature  that  you 
seem  always  afraid  that  He  wUl  play  you  some  trick 
— that  He  will  call  for  you  before  you  are  ready,  or 
that  He  only  bears  a  joy  to  your  lips  in  order,  for  some 
disciplinary  purpose,  to  dash  it  away.  You  do  not, 
like  a  child,  trust  Him — give  yourself  and  all  your 
hopes  and  all  your  life  up  to  Him.  You  have  no  ease 
in  Him — no  peace  in  Him.  You  are  on  the  constant 
watch  for  yourself,  seeking  to  fathom  or  foresee  His 
designs  concerning  yourself,  and  bearing — with  your 
poor,  weak  hands — the  burden  which  only  He  can 
carry  without  toil.  God  the  judge — God  the  ruler — 
God  the  providential  dispenser — this  is  your  God ;  but 


To  Saul  M.  Jones.  317 

God  the  everlasting  Father,  full  of  all  tender  pity  and 
compassion,  wooing  you  to  His  arms,  asking  you  to 
repose  upon  His  bosom  and  give  up  to  Him  all  your 
griefs  and  trust  Him  for  all  the  future,  is  a  strange 
God  to  you.  Ah !  sir !  I  am  more  sorry  for  you  in 
this  great  mistake  and  misfortune  than  my  words  can 
tell. 

I  think  you  have  always  felt  that  it  is  wrong  to  be 
cheerful.  Your  religion  has  been  a  joyless  one.  You 
received  in  early  life,  I  cannot  doubt,  the  impression 
that  no  person,  realizing  the  brevity  of  life,  the  tremen- 
dous realities  of  eternity,  the  consequences  of  sin  and 
the  necessity  of  constant  preparation  for  death  and 
readiness  for  every  affliction,  could  possibly  be  cheer- 
ful. Naturally  reverent  and  constitutionally  timid,  tliis 
kind  of  teaching  planted  itself  so  deeply  in  your  spirit 
that  a  better  doctrine,  assisted  by  your  own  reason, 
has  never  uprooted  it.  To  you,  the  most  joyful  peal 
of  bells  comes  only  with  suggestions  of  the  grave,  and 
the  touch  of  a  baby's  hand  upon  your  cheek  reminds 
you  only  of  its  frailty  and  its  doom.  The  earth  has 
been  literally  a  vale  of  tears  to  you.  As  you  have  seen 
the  young  overflowing  with  life  and  joy,  and  dancing 
along  a  flowery  pathway,  you  have  sighed  over  them 
with  an  inefiable  pity.  You  have  never  dared  to  set 
your  aflections  upon  anything,  for  fear  that  it  would 
be  taken  away  from  you,  or  that,  in  some  way,  it  would 


318  Letters  to  the  Jonefes. 

become  a  curse  to  you.  You  have  looked  upon  life 
simply  as  a  period  of  discipline  preparatory  to  a  better 
life,  whose  joy  fulness  must  necessarily  be  in  the  ratio 
of  the  joylessness  of  that  which  precedes  it.  Life  has 
appeared  to  you  to  be  only  a  preparation  for  death, 
and  religion  has  been  only  something  to  die  by. 

Xow,  my  friend,  I  am  very  much  mistaken  if  it  be 
not  one  of  the  special  offices  of  Christianity  to  release 
those  who,  through  fear  of  death,  have  all  their  life 
been  subject  to  bondage — to  make  the  future  so  clear 
and  attractive  that  it  shall  fill  the  present  with  joyfid 
content.  I  know  that  we  are  directed  to  be  ready  for 
death,  when  it  shall  come ;  but  how  can  a  man  be 
readier  than  when  engaged  actively  in  pushing  on  the 
great  work  of  the  world,  and  enjoying  all  the  satis- 
faction that  must  naturally  flow  from  the  consciousness 
of  a  future  forever  secure  ? 

If  your  idea  and  your  policy  were  to  become  prev- 
alent in  the  world,  the  world  would  certainly  become 
more  thoroughly  a  vale  of  tears  than  it  has  ever  been, 
— more  than  you  imagine  it  to  be.  Such  prevalence 
would  be  universal  paralysis.  God  is  not  interested, 
exclusively,  I  imagine,  with  the  small  concerns  of  indi- 
\aduals  like  yourself.  He  watches  the  life  of  nations 
and  the  rise  and  growth  of  civilizations.  One  genera- 
tion lays  the  corner-stone  of  the  state,  and  a  hundred 
generations  rear  the   superstructure,  and  numberless 


•  To  Saul  M.  Jones.  319 

lives  are  swallowed  up  in  the  process.  Lives  and 
destinies  overlap  each  other,  and  one  continues  what 
another  begins.  The  thread  of  silk  is  not  cut  off  be- 
cause a  single  cocoon  is  exhausted.  The  single  cocoon 
is  not  missed,  and  if  it  were,  there  are  a  hundred  to 
take  its  place.  Men  do  not  live  to  themselves  alone 
— do  not  live  with  reference  alone  t-o  that  which,  in 
the  Providence  of  God,  may  personally  befall  them. 
There  is  a  family,  there  is  a  posterity,  there  is  a  coun- 
tiy,  there  is  a  world  to  live  for  ; — there  are  great  enter- 
prises to  be  engaged  in  wliich  consult  no  period  of  sus- 
pension short  of  the  national  death  or  the  final  con- 
summation of  all  things. 

"What  headway  do  you  think  would  be  made  in  the 
world's  educational  and  rcfonnatory  work  by  men 
who,  like  you,  think  that  there  is  not  much  use  in 
undertaking  anything  because  death  is  so  very  near  ? 
Judge  for  yourself.  Are  you  an  active  man  in  any  of 
the  great  Christian  and  humane  movements  of  the 
time  ?  Do  you  ever  dream  of  putting  your  shoulder 
to  the  wheel  of  progress  ?  No,  sir.  You  are  the  sub- 
ject of  mental  and  spiritual  paralysis  ;  and  if  the  world 
were  made  np  of  such  as  you,  it  would  come  to  a  dead 
halt.  You  have  lived  in  your  old  house  until  it  is 
tumbling  down  about  your  head,  because  it  has  seemed 
as  if  anything  like  a  permanent  repair  of  it  would 
tempt  Providence  to  take  you  away  from  it  altogether. 


320  Letters  to  the  Joneies. 


You  could  tear  the  old  house  down  and  build  a  new,  but 
life  seems  so  short  and  death  so  near  that  even  the 
suggestion  of  such  an  enterprise  has  appeared  impious. 
You  have  thought  only  of  him  who  proposed  to  pull 
down  his  barns  and  build  greater,  and  of  the  end  that 
came  before  the  barns  were  begun.  The  new  gar- 
ments which  you  put  on  are  adopted  with  the  sad 
reflection  that  you  shall  probably  never  live  to  wear 
them  out,  and  every  chastened  pleasure  which  you  put 
fearfully  to  your  lips  is  loaded  with  the  thought  that 
you  have  possibly  tasted  it  for  the  last  time. 

"What  kind  of  a  Christianity  do  you  think  this  is 
to  commend  to  a  careless  world  ?  There  can  be  no 
question  as  to  the  relative  comfort  and  happiness  of 
the  worldling  and  yourself.  The  careless  worldling,  so 
that  he  have  no  vice  that  burns  his  conscience,  is  a 
happier  man  than  you  ;  and  if  he  be  a  man  of  active, 
benevolent  impulses,  he  is  a  more  useful  member  of 
society.  This  continual  thoughtfulness  touching  your- 
self, this  constant  carefulness  of  yourself,  this  perpetual 
watching  of  events  with  relation  to  their  bearing  upon 
youi-self,  cannot  fail  to  make  you  selfish, — or,  rather, 
cannot  fail  to  shut  out  the  thought  of  others  and  of  the 
great  interests  of  the  world  at  large. 

I  count  that  man  supremely  happy  who,  prepared 
in  his  heart  for  every  emergency,  and  every  event,  has 
given  himself  in  perfect  trust  to. the  Great  Disposer, 


To  Saul  M.  Jones.  321 

and  addressed  himself  with  a  glad  heart  to  the  work 
and  the  enjoyment  of  the  present  life.  Such  a  man 
makes  no  calculation  for  misfortune  and  watches  not 
for  death,  but  does  that  which  his  hand  finds  to  do, 
knowing  that  if  he  does  not  enjoy  the  fruit  of  his  labor, 
others  will,  and  content  to  take  the  il]s  of  life  when 
they  come.  Such  a  man  sees  woe  only  to  do  what  he 
can  to  alleviate  it.  There  is  light"  in  his  eye,  there  is 
life  in  his  step.  To  me  he  is  the  pattern  Christian  of 
the  world.  The  bright  side  of  things  is  with  him  so 
bright  that  its  radiance  quite  overpowers  the  darkness 
of  the  other  side.  He  is  cheerful  because  he  is  free. 
Is  it  too  late,  my  friend,  for  you  to  be  relieved  of  this 
load  of  fear  and  carefulness  and  apprehension  ?  I  think 
not.  I  believe  that  this  habit  of  your  life  can  be 
broken,  and  that  many  happy  days  can  yet  be  yours — 
days  of  calm  joy  undarkened  by  a  single  care  or  cloud, 
days  of  heavenly  hope  and  trust,  and  days  of  earnest, 
far-reaching  work. 


THE    TWENTY-THIRD    LETTER. 

Co  foljit  ^mitlj  |oncs. 

COyCERNlKG  iriS  NEIGnBORLT  DUTIES,  AND  HIS  FAILURE 
TO  PERFORM  TIIEM. 

"IVTEXT  to  being  a  good  husband  and  father,  I  con- 
Jl\  sider  it  eveiy  man's  duty  to  be  a  good  neigh- 
bor, A  good  neighbor  !  My  heart  brims  with  grati- 
tude as  I  write  the  phrase,  for  memory,  by  her  magic 
call,  summons  to  their  places  along  the  track  of  the 
past  a  line  of  ministers  M'hose  homely  and  pleasant 
faces  are  as  familiar  as  those  of  Tn.y  own  family — min- 
isters of  good  to  me  in  a  thousand  ways,  through 
neighborly  kindness.  Among  this  long  line  of  good 
neighbors,  all  of  whom  I  remember  with  grateful  de- 
light, there  were  some  in  whom  the  neighborly  instinct 
was  as  distinct,  and  characteristic,  and  original,  as 
the  parental  instinct,  or  the  religious  sentiment ;  and  I 
hereby  modestly  announce  myself  as  the  original  dis- 


To  John  Smith  Jones.  323 

coverer  of  this  original  neighborly  instinct.  Neighbor- 
ly kindness  has  hitherto  been  regarded  as  the  offspring 
of  a  benevolent  disposition,  but  such  a  theory  degrades 
it.  It  is  a  distinct  growth  from  a  separate  seed,  and 
often  thrives  in  people  who  are  not  remarkable  for 
general  benevolence.  When  unhindered  and  thrifty, 
it  is,  in  some  natures,  the  distinguishing  characteristic. 
Before  I  come  to  the  treatment  of  your  case,  I  re- 
gard it  as  a  neighborly  duty  to  pay  tribute  to  some  of 
those  good  neighbors  whose  deeds  are  forever  em- 
balmed in  my  heart.  To  that  hearty,  loving  woman 
who  used  to  flit  backward  and  forward  between  her 
humble  house  and  my  childhood's  home,  lending  more 
than  she  borrowed,  and  always  returning  more,  bring- 
ing in  tid-bits  of  her  cooking  to  me,  always  sharing 
her  luxuries  with  the  hand  that  cared  for  me,  watching 
with  us  all  in  sickness,  and  always  declaring  that  she 
had  done  nothing  at  all,  and  was,  on  the  whole, 
ashamed  of  the  unworthiness  and  insignificance  of  her 
offices,  my  tearful  thanks !  Though  for  many  years 
she  has  walked  in  white,  upon  the  heavenly  hills,  I 
hope  it  is  not  too  late  to  tell  her  that  the  man  does  not 
forget  her  pleasant  words  and  kind  deeds  to  the  boy, 
and  that  the  son,  though  he  should  live  to  be  old  and 
gray-headed,  will  always  hold  in  precious  remembrance 
her  tender  service  to  his  mother.  To  that  old  saint 
whom  I  used  to  see  stealing  across  lots  to  carry  food 


324  Letters  to  the  Jonefes. 


and  clothing  to  needy  homes,  and  entering  the  back 
doors  of  those  homes  with  many  apologies  for  his  in- 
trusion, my  acknowledgments  for  his  beautiful  lesson  ! 
To  that  kind  woman  who  had  a  large  family  of  bois- 
terous boys,  and  who  not  only  understood  that  boys 
had  good  appetites,  but  that  they  particularly  liked  to 
gratify  them  on  the  night  after  the  annual  Thanksgiv- 
ing, and  found  attractions  at  her  house  superior  to  any 
other  in  the  neighborhood,  I  assume  the  privilege  of 
returning  the  thanks  of  at  least  twenty  men  besides 
myself.  And  to  him  who  took  a  young  man's  hand  in 
trouble,  and  giving  him  his  faith  and  the  voice  of  his 
encouragement,  and  sacrificing  something  and  risking 
much,  helped  him  over  the  hardest  spot  of  his  life  into 
the  field  of  his  life's  successes,  my  reverence  ! 

Ah  !  my  good  neighbors !  I  did  not  dream  hosv 
numerous  you  were  imtil  I  undertook  to  recall  you. 
Throughout  all  my  life  you  have  formed  the  circle 
next  to  that  which  sits  around  my  heart.  I  have 
exchanged  my  morning  greeting  with  you,  have 
walked  to  the  house  of  God  with  you,  have  met  you 
at  your  tables  and  in  my  own  home,  have  shared  with 
you  the  work  of  neighborly  charity  ;  and,  ever  since  I 
can  remember,  some  of  the  constant  pleasures  of  my 
life  have  come  to  me  from  you.  In  the  days  of  dark- 
ness, your  gentle  rap  was  at  my  door,  your  whispered  in- 
quiry was  constant,  your  profiered  service  was  always 


To  John  Smith  Jones.  325 

at  hand.  And  when  the  Uttle  form  was  carried  out  to 
be  laid  under  the  flowers,  there  were  fairer  flowers 
upon  his  bosom,  that  came  from  you,  than  have  ever 
grown  above  it  since.  You  are  my  brothers  and  my 
sisters,  to  whom  I  feel  bound  by  a  tie  almost  as  sweet 
and  precious  as  that  which  binds  me  to  those  who  fill 
my  home. 

Exactly  how  this  rhapsody  will  strike  you,  Mr. 
John  Smith  Jones,  I  cannot  tell.  I  do  not  think  you 
have  looked  to  see  whether  you  could  identify  yourself 
with  those  of  my  good  neighbors  whom  I  have  endeav- 
ored to  recall.  It  seems  to  me  that  you  must  be  con- 
scious that  you  are  different  in  most  respects  from 
your  neighbors.  You  must  be  aware  that  most  people 
are  good  neighbors  among  tliemselves,  as  most  people 
are  affectionate  parents.  The  neighborly  instinct  is  as 
universal  as  the  parental.  Let  so  much  as  this,  at  least, 
be  said  for  human  nature :  that  Avithout  respect  to 
creed  or  culture,  men  and  women  are  in  the  main  good 
neighbors.  I  have  never  yet  seen  the  place  where  the 
offices  of  good  neighborhood  were  lacking.  There  is 
not  only  the  neighborly  instinct  engaged  in  this  thing, 
but  there  is  a  universal  personal  pride  that  fills  out 
where  the  instinct  fails.  It  is  generally  understood 
and  felt  that  for  one  neighbor  to  help  another  in 
trouble,  and  for  one  neighbor  to  make  the  path  of  an- 
other neighbor  pleasant,  is  forever  a  fit   and   good 


326  Letters  to  the  Jonefes. 

thing.  This  being  recognized,  it  is  felt  that  a  gentle- 
man will  do  that  which  is  fit  and  good,  and  that,  to 
faU  in  neighborly  well  doing,  is  to  fail  to  approve  one's 
self  a  gentleman.  I  think  I  know  many  supremely 
selfish  men  who  are  always  spoken  of  as  good  neigh- 
bors. They  have  a  sense  of  that  which  is  fit  and  good. 
They  feel  that  no  person  who  pretends  to  be  a  gentle- 
man will  fail  to  do  that  which  is  fit  and  good  with  rela- 
tion to  his  neighbors.  They  feel  that  neighborhood 
imposes  certain  duties  upon  them  which  they  must 
perform,  or  lose  caste,  not  only  with  others,  but  M'ith 
theniselves.  They  feel  that  it  is  not  respectable  to  be 
a  bad  neighbor. 

I  suppose  there  may  be  some  neighborhoods  in  the 
world  that  have  no  bad  neighbor  in  them,  but,  nearly 
always,  though  the  many  are  right,  there  is  one  indi- 
vidual in  the  wrong.  Very  few  are  the  neighborhoods 
in  which  there  is  not  one  person  who  is  a  bad  neigh- 
bor. In  your  neighborhood,  Mr.  John  Smith  Jones, 
you  are  that  neighbor.  You  are  always  in  a  quarrel 
with  somebody  about  a  fence.  You  are  always  very 
much  afraid  that  somebody  has  encroached  upon  your 
line,  or  is  about  encroaching  upon  your  line.  You 
keep  a  miserable  dog  that  worries  all  the  horses  that 
pass  your  house,  and  renders  it  next  to  impossible  for 
anybody,  except  a  courageous  man  armed  with  a  cane, 
to  enter  your  door.     You  keep  hens  that  enter  the 


To  John  Smith  Jones.  327 


gardens  of  your  neighbors,  and  scratch  up  seeds,  and 
rip  open  tomatoes,  and  wallow  in  flower  beds,  and 
make  a  nuisance  of  themselves  from  May  until  Novem- 
ber, leaving  nobody  in  their  vicinity  in  quiet  possession 
of  his  premises.  You  will  not  take  care  of  your  side- 
walk in  the  winter,  and  I  have  thought  that  you  take 
a  malicious  satisfaction  in  hearing  your  neighbors  curse 
you  as  they  hobble  over  the  ice  in  front  of  your  house. 
You  will  join  with  your  neighbors  in  no  effort  for 
beautifying  your  street.  Your  consciousness  that  you 
deserve  ill  at  the  hands  of  your  neighbors  leads  you  to 
suppose  that  they  are  all  banded  against  you,  and  shut- 
ting yourself  into  your  own  castle,  you  look  out  upon 
the  little  world  of  neighbors  around  you  in  defiance,  and 
full  of  the  spirit  of  mischief.  You  do  not  care  how 
much  you  annoy  them.  You  would  feel  uncomfortable 
if  you  did  not  annoy  them,  and  though  your  dog  and 
your  hens  are  a  perpetual  plague  to  them,  let  but  a 
pet  rabbit  stray  into  your  enclosure,  and  down  comes 
your  musket,  and  the  pet  rabbit  dies.    . 

How  far  you  are  to  be  blamed  for  this  it  is  impos- 
sible for  me  to  say.  I  have  no  doubt  that  it  is  a  legiti- 
mate apology  for  you  to  say  that  nature  did  not  endow 
you  with  the  neighborly  instinct.  There  is  really 
something  lacking  in  you  in  this  respect,  and,  so  far  as 
this  want  exists,  there  is  an  excuse  for  you.  There  is 
a  lack  in  your  nature  still  further  than  this.     You  are 


328 


Letters  to  the  Jonefes. 


not  sensitive  to  feel  how  everlastingly  disgraceful  it  is 
to  you  to  be  at  variance  with  your  neighbors,  and  to 
do  those  things  which  must  necessarily  make  them 
dislike  you.  I  suppose  that  if  this  letter  arrests  your 
attention,  you  will  put  in  the  further  plea,  or  disregard- 
ing my  apologies  for  you,  put  in  the  exclusive  plea 
that  your  neighbors  are  quarrelsome,  and  interfere 
with  you.  Let  me  say  in  reply  to  this  that  I  do  not 
believe  the  man  can  be  found  who  is  always  at  variance 
with  his  neighbors,  who  is  not  himself  blamable  for  it. 
I  know  men  who  are  accounted  good  husbands,  good 
parents,  and  good  men — perhaps  religious  men — who 
are  notorious  as  uncomfortable  neighbors.  I  know 
men  of  irreproachable  morals  of  whom  I  never  heard 
a  neighbor  speak  a  kind  word,  hx  such  cases  the 
blame  attaches  to  the  unloved  person  always ;  and  if 
any  man  who  may  read  these  words,  feels  that,  as  a 
neighbor,  he  is  not  loved,  let  him  take  home  to  himself 
the  coRviction  that  he  is  the  sinner,  and  that  when  he 
shall  be  reformed  his  neighborhood  wiU  be  reformed. 
Quarrelsome  neighbors  are  invariably  little-minded 
persons.  A  really  noble  mind  never  quarrels.  A  really 
noble  man  or  woman  is  never  complained  of  as  a  bad 
neighbor. 

I  think  you  are  a  worse  neighbor  than  you  were 
when  you  were  less  prosperous.  Poverty  not  un  fre- 
quently makes  an  excellent  neighbor  and  an  excellent 


To  John  Smith  Jones.  329 

neighborhood.  When  men  and  women  are  engaged 
in  a  struggle  for  bread,  and  are  obliged  to  depend  upon 
mutual  assistance  in  sickness  and  the  various  emergen- 
cies of  life,  they  are  very  apt  to  be  good  neighbors. 
When  you  were  poor,  you  were  a  tolerable  neighbor, 
notwithstanding  your  want  of  the  neighborly  instinct 
and  other  noble  qualities  ;  but  since  you  became  an 
independent  man,  all  your  show  of  a  neighborly  dis- 
position has  vanished.  The  sense  of  independence  has 
isolated  you,  and  given  your  selfish  pride  the  oppor- 
tunity to  assert  and  maintain  its  full  sway  over  your 
little  spirit.  Your  house  is  in  every  sense  your  castle. 
It  stands  as  coldly  and  as  lonely  in  the  midst  of  the 
neighborhood,  and  seems  as  thoroughly  barred  against 
neighborly  approach,  as  that  of  Sir  Launfal,  that 

*'  Alone  in  the  landscape  lay 
Like  an  outpost  of  winter,  dull  and  gray." 

Your  fences  are  high  ;  your  screens  are  broad  ;  and 
behind  these  you  sit,  and  self-complacently  make  faces 
at  the  world.  If  you  borrow  of  nobody,  nobody  bor- 
rows of  you.  Nobody  goes  near  you,  and  you  have 
abundant  time  to  indulge  in  the  selfish  contemplation 
of  your  independence. 

After  all,  is  not  this  a  small  and  miserable  life  that 
you  are  living  ?  Does  it  satisfy  you  ?  I  am  prepared 
to  hear  that  it  does,  but  it  would  gratify  me  much  to 


330 


Letters  to  the  Jonefes. 


know  that  you  are  not  so  utterly  selfish  as  to  be  con- 
tented with  it.  Are  there  not  times  when  you  long  for 
neighborly  sympathy — when  the  face  of  a  loving  and 
kind  neighbor,  looking  in  at  your  door,  bent  upon  some 
office  of  good  will,  or  even  asking  a  favor,  would  seem 
delightful  to  you  ?  If  such  times  come,  then  are  you 
not  only  saveable  but  worth  saving.  Sooner  or  later 
the  time  must  come  to  every  man  who  is  worth  saving, 
when  he  will  feel  that  life  has  no  genuine  satisfaction 
outside  of  the  love  and  respect  of  those  who  are  around 
him.  Our  only  satisfying  life  is  in  the  hearts  of  others. 
You  may  content  yourself  with  yoiu-  family,  but  even 
for  the  sake  of  your  family — for  the  sake  of  holding 
the  respect  of  your  family — you  must  sometimes  long 
for  the  love  and  respect  of  your  neighbors.  No 
despised  and  hated  man,  conscious  that  he  has  legiti- 
mately earned  the  dislike  in  which  he  is  held — can  long 
maintain  his  self-respect ;  and  when  this  breaks  down, 
even  the  worst  nature  will  cry  out  for  help.  It  must 
be  that  there  are  times  when  it  would  be  a  great  relief 
to  you  to  do  a  neighbor  a  favor  for  the  asking. 
^  I  do  not  question  the  sincerity  of  your  belief  that 
you  have  very  bad  neighbors.  I  do  not  doubt  that 
you  honestly  consider  them  the  worst  and  meanest  men 
that  ever  constituted  a  neighborhood.  I  have  no  doubt 
that  they  have  shown  their  worst  and  meanest  side  to 
you,  and  that,  if  the  men  were  to  be  judged  exclusively 


To  John  Smith  Jones.  331 

by  the  aspect  which  they  have  presented  to  you,  their 
pictures  would  not  be  flattering.  But  you  should 
remember  that  your  position  and  your  words  and  acts 
have  only  been  calculated  to  call  forth  that  which  is 
evil  in  them.  They  have  shown  their  worst  side  to 
you,  because  you  have  shown  only  your  worst  side  to 
them.  You  have  provoked  their  indifference,  their 
insolence,  their  petty  revenges,  their  spiteful  remarks, 
their  cold  rebuffs,  and  all  their  unneighborly  doings. 
What  there  is  of  evil  in  them,  they  show  to  you, 
because  you  have  been  only  a  bad  neighbor  to  them. 
Suppose,  when  you  first  entered  your  neighborhood, 
you  had  been  a  generous,  kind-hearted,  neighborly 
man,  opening  your  house  and  heart  to  those  aroimd 
you,  entering  their  houses,  and  in  every  possible  way 
showing  good  feeling  toward  them,  and  doing  good 
through  various  schemes  of  improvement ;  do  you 
think  you  would  have  seen  anything  of  this  unpleasant 
side  of  Avhich  you  now  complain  ?,  If  you  have  com- 
mon sense,  you  know  that  all  your  neighbors  would 
have  shown  you  nothing  but  good  will,  and  that  you 
would  have  been  loved  and  honored. 

Now  this  good  side  of  your  neighbors,  which  I  see, 
and  you  do  not,  you  must  find.  You  can  find  it,  and 
though,  for  various  reasons,  it  may  seem  to  you  now 
that  not  one  of  them  is  amiable,  you  may  learn  that 
there  is  not  one  of  them  who  is  not  more  worthy  to 


332  Letters  to  the  Jonefes. 


be  loved  than  you  are.  How  is  it  that  they  love  and 
respect  one  another,  while  none  of  them  respects  and 
loves  you?  "Why  is  it  that  you  are  selected  as  the 
object  of  their  united  dislike  ?  Sir,  you  are  the  mean- 
est man  of  the  neighborhood,  and  yet  you  have  times 
of  believing  yourself  abused,  and  of  considering  your- 
self the  only  decent  man  among  them  all.  You  feel 
that  there  is  something  in  you  that  is  loveable,  and 
that  that  something  ought  to  be  loved.  That  some- 
thing whicli  your  wife  has  found,  which  your  children 
have  found,  which  your  mother  found  years  ago, 
should,  you  feel,  secure  the  love  and  good  will  of  your 
neighbors.  Are  you  the  only  man  of  all  your  neigh- 
borhood who  has  loveable  qualities  that  are  hidden  ? 
All  these  men  whom  you  have  come  to  regard  as  bad 
neighbors  are  a  good  deal  more  loveable  than  you  are, 
but  they  show  their  unlovely  side  to  you,  simply  be- 
cause you  have  shown  your  imlovely  side  to  them. 
Show  the  best  part  of  your  nature  to  them,  and  you 
will  be  astonished  to  see  how  quickly  they  will  become 
lovely  to  you,  through  the  exhibition  of  excellencies 
whose  existence  has  been  hitherto  hidden  from  you. 
You  have  never  shown  anything  but  your  hateful  side 
to  them,  and  it  is  very  stupid  of  you  to  suppose  that 
they  will  love  that. 

I  imagine  that  this  kind  of  talk  will  do  you  very 
little  good,  but  there  are  two  motives  which  I  can 


To  John  Smith  Jones.  333 

present  to  you  that  you  can  measui-e,  and  that,  I 
am  sure,  will  commend  themselves  to  your  considera- 
tion. With  all  your  meanness,  you  are  proud,  and 
you  feel  that  there  is  something  admirable  in  manli- 
ness. Now  your  position  as  a  neighbor  is  not  a  manly 
one,  but  it  is  inexpressibly  childish.  Are  you  a  man, 
and  do  you  shut  yourself  within  the  lines  of  your  pos- 
sessions, and  quarrel  about  fences,  and  lines  of  boun- 
dary, and  encroachments  ?  Are  you  a  man,  and  do 
you  rejoice  in  making  yourself  offensive  to  those  around 
you  by  petty  annoyances  ?  Are  you  a  man,  and  do 
you  stand  ready  to  pounce  upon  any  unlucky  child  or 
pet  of  your  neighbor  the  moment  it  enters  your  en- 
closure ?  Do  you  call  such  things  manly  ?  Are  you 
not  ashamed  of  your  childishness  ?  The  real  man  is 
noble.  He  will  himself  suffer  inconvenience  rather  than 
annoy  his  neighbor.  He  will  suffer  wrong  rather  than 
betray  a  small  spirit  of  revenge.  He  will  not  permit 
himself  to  be  degraded  by  a  quarrel  that  can  be  avoided 
by  any  generous  and  self-denying  act.  By  acts  of  jus- 
tice and  generosity  he  will  compel  the  respect  of  his 
neighbors,  and  vindicate  his  claim  to  manliness.  You 
have  moral  vision  enough  left  to  see  all  this,  and  sen- 
sibility, I  hope,  to  feel  that  a  mean  neighbor  is  no  man, 
but  only  a  childish  imitation  of  one. 

The  second  motive  which  I  present  to  you  is  more 
selfish,  even,  than  the  first,  and  for  that  reason  you  can 


334  Letters  to  the  Jonefes. 


appreciate  it  better.  A  bad  neiglibor.has  no  influence. 
No  man  can  move  society,  in  any  direction,  who  has  lost 
his  hold  upon  these  who  are  around  him.  You  haA-e 
isolated  yourself,  and  you  reap  the  consequences  in  your 
loss  of  influence.  You  are  without  power  upon  the 
world.  With  all  your  fancied  independence,  and  with 
all  the  power  which  money  gives  you,  there  is  not  a 
man  who  would  permit  himself  to  be  moved  by  you. 
You  must  become  a  good  neighbor  if  you  would  Avin 
power  over  others  for  any  purpose.  As  it  is,  you  are 
counted  out  of  every  ring,  and  have  no  power  to  call 
a  ring  around  yourself. 

I  wish  I  could,  at  least,  make  you  and  every  other 
man  who  reads  these  words  feel  that  an  unpleasant 
neighbor  is  a  nuisance.  There  is  no  good  reason  why 
the  word  "  neighborhood  "  should  not  be  as  sweet  and 
suggestive  and  sacred  a  word  as  "  family."  A  neigh- 
borhood is  a  congeries  of  homes,  and  the  home  spirit 
of  love  and  mutual  adaptation  and  mutual  help  and 
harmony  should  prevail  in  it.  Home  life  itself  is  in- 
complete without  good  neighborhood  life,  and  every 
man  who  poisons  the  latter  is  the  enemy  of  every  home 
afiected  by  his  act. 


THE    TWENTY-FOURTH    LETTER. 

^a  dloobriclj  |oncs,  |r. 

CONCERXIXG  niS  DISPOSITIOy  TO  BE  COXTEyT  WITH  THE 
RESPECTABILITY  AKD  WEALTH  WHICU  HIS  FATHER  HAS 
ACQUIRED  FOR  HIM. 

YOUR  father,  by  a  life  of  integrity  and  close  and 
skilful  application  to  business,  has  made  for  him- 
self a  good  reputation  in  the  world,  and  become  what 
the  world  calls  rich.  He  lives  in  a  good  house,  moves 
in  good  society,  commands  for  his  family  all  desirable 
luxuries  of  dress  and  equipage,  and  holds  a  position 
which  places  him  upon  an  equality  with  the  greatest 
and  best.  He  began  humbly,  if  I  am  correctly  in- 
formed, and  has  won  his  eminence  by  the  force  of  his 
own  life  and  character.  I  honor  him.  I  count  him 
worthy  of  the  respect  of  every  man  ;  and  I  find  myself 
disposed  to  treat  his  family  with  respect  on  his  account 
— for  his  sake.  This  feeling  toward  his  family,  which 
I  find  springing  up  spontaneously  within  myself,  seems 
to  be  quite  universal.     The  world  bows  to  the  family 


336  Letters  to  the  Jonefes. 


of  the  venerable  Goodrich  Jones — bows,  not  to  Mrs. 
Jones,  particularly,  as  a  respectable  woman,  but  to  the 
wife  of  Goodrich  Jones — bows  not  to  his  children,  as 
voung  men  and  women  of  intelligence  and  good  morals, 
but  as  young  people  who  are  to  be  treated  with  more 
than  ordinary  courtesy  because  they  are  the  children 
of  the  rich  and  respectable  Goodrich  Jones. 

This  feeling  of  the  world  toward  Mr.  Goodrich 
Jones'  family  is  very  natural.  It  is  a  tribute  of  respect  to 
a  worthy  old  gentleman,  and,  so  far  as  he  is  concerned, 
is  one  of  the  natural  rewards  of  his  life  of  industry 
and  integrity.  I  notice,  however,  that  the  family  of 
Mr.  Jones  have  come  to  look  upon  these  tributes  of 
respect  to  them,  on  account  of  Mr.  Jones,  as  quite  the 
proper  and  regular  thing,  and  to  feel  that  they  are 
really  worthy  of  special  attention,  because  Mr.  Jones 
commands  it  for  himself.  Instead  of  feeling  a  little 
humiliated  by  the  consciousness  that  they  are  treated 
with  special  politeness,  not  because  they  are  particu- 
larly brilliant,  or  rich,  or  well-bred,  but  because  they 
are  the  family  of  a  rich  and  respectable  man,  they  are 
inclined  to  feel  proud  of  it.  Plow  they  manage  to  be 
vain  of  respectability  and  wealth  won  for  them  by 
somebody  beside  themselves,  I  do  not  know ;  but  I 
suppose  their  case  is  not  singular.  Indeed,  I  know 
that  the  world  is  full  of  such  cases,  many  of  which 
would  be  ridiculous  were  they  not  pitiful. 


To  Goodrich  Jones,  Jr.  337 

The  thought  that  you,  Goodrich  Jones,  Jr.,  are  the 
son  of  Goodrich  Jones,  and  that  you  bear  his  name, 
seems  to  form  the  basis  of  your  estimate  of  yourself. 
I  have  ah'eady  given  the  reason  why  the  world  treats 
you  respectfully,  but  that  reason  need  not  necessarily 
be  identical  with  that  which  leads  you  to  respect  your- 
self. If,  owing  to  some  circimistance  or  agency  be- 
yond your  control,  you  were  to  be  suddenly  stripped 
of  all  your  ready  money  and  other  resources,  and  set 
down  in  some  distant  city  among  strangers,  what 
would  be  your  first  impulse  ?  "Would  you  go  to  work, 
and  try  to  make  a  place  for  yourself?  Would  you  be 
willing  to  pass  for  just  what  you  are — to  be  estimated 
for  just  what  there  is  in  you  of  the  elements  of  man- 
hood, or  would  you  endeavor  to  convince  everybody 
that  you  were  the  son  of  a  certain  very  rich  and  re- 
spectable Goodrich  Jones,  and  try  to  secure  considera- 
tion for  yourself  by  such  representation  ?  I  presume 
you  would  pursue  the  same  policy  among  strangers 
that  you  pursue  among  friends.  You  have  never  made 
an  effort  to  be  respected  for  works  or  personal  merits 
of  your  own.  You  push  yourself  forward  everywhere 
as  the  son  of  Goodrich  Jones — indeed,  as  Goodrich 
Jones,  Jr.  You  have  not  only  been  content  to  live  in 
the  shadow  of  your  father's  name,  but  you  have  been 
apparently  anxious  to  invite  public  attention  to  the  fact 
that  you  do.    You  have  not  only  been  content  to  live 

15 


338  Letters  to  the  Jonefes. 


upon  money  which  your  father  has  made,  but  you  seem 
delighted  to  have  it  understood  that  you  can  draw 
upon  him  for  all  you  want.  You  seem  to  have  no  am- 
bition to  make  either  reputation  or  money  for  yourself. 
On  the  contrary,  I  think  you  would  look  upon  it  as  dis- 
graceful for  you  to  engage  in  business  for  the  purpose 
of  winning  wealth  by  labor. 

Now  will  you  permit  one  who  has  bowed  to  you 
frequently  for  your  father's  sake  to  talk  very  plainly  to 
you  for  your  own?  Let  me  assure  you,  in  the  first 
place,  that  all  this  respect  which  the  world  shows  to 
you  is  unsubstantial  and  imreliable.  The  man  who 
treats  you  with  respect  because  your  father  is  rich 
would  cease  to  treat  you  with  respect  if  you  were  to 
become  poor.  The  man  who  bows  to  you  because 
yom-  father  occupies  a  high  social  position,  would  pass 
you  without  recognition  were  your  father,  for  any 
reason,  to  lose  that  position.  Let  me  assure  you  that 
the  world  does  not  care  for  you  any  further  than  you 
are  the  partaker  of  the  money  and  the  respectability 
which  have  been  achieved  by  your  father.  Nay,  I  will 
go  further,  and  say  that,  side  by  side  with  the  defer- 
ence which  it  shows  for  you  on  your  father's  account, 
it  cherishes  contempt  for  one  who  is  willing  to  receive 
his  position  at  second  hand.  You  cannot  complain  of 
this,  for  you  place  your  claims  for  social  consideration 
entirely  on  your  father's  position.     The  negro  slave  is 


proud  of  the  superior  wealth  of  his  master,  and  among 
his  fellow  slaves,  assumes  a  superior  position  in  conse- 
quence of  wealth  which  is  not  his  own.  He  belongs 
to  a  splendid  establishment,  and,  in  his  own  eyes,  wins 
importance  from  the  association.  "When  his  master 
fails,  the  slave  sinks.  No,  sir,  there  is  nothing  reliable 
in  this  consideration  of  the  world  for  you.  You  are 
only  treated  as  a  representative  of  the  wealth  and  re- 
spectability of  another  man,  and  if  he  were  to  become 
displeased  with  you,  and  were  to  disown  and  disinherit 
you,  you  would  find  yourself  without  a  friend  in  the 
world. 

In  the  second  place,  your  position  is  an  unmanly 
one.  None  but  a  mean  man  can  be  willing  to  hold  his 
position  at  second  hand.  I  count  him  fortunate  who 
is  born  to  pleasant  and  good  social  relations,  and  all 
the  advantages  which  they  bring  him  for  the  develop- 
ment of  his  personal  character ;  but  I  coimt  him  most 
unfortunate  who,  bom  to  such  relations,  is  willing  to 
hold  them  as  a  birthright  alone.  A  man  who  is  willing 
to  keeiJ  a  place  in  society  which  his  father  has  given 
him,  through  his  father's  continued  influence,  is  neces- 
sarily mean-spirited  and  contemptible.  Every  young 
man  of  a  manly  spirit  who  finds  himself  in  good  so- 
ciety, through  the  influence  of  others,  will  prove  his 
right  to  the  place,  and  hold  the  place  by  his  own 
merits.     No  man  of  your  age  can  consent  to  hold  his 


340 


Letters  to  the  Jonefes. 


social  position  solely  through  the  influence  of  his  father 
without  convicting  himself  either  of  imbecility  or 
meanness.  If  you  had  any  genuine  self-respect,  you 
-would  feel  that  to  owe  to  others  what  you  are  capable 
of  winning  for  yourself,  and  to  be  considered  only  as 
a  portion  of  a  rich  and  respectable  man's  belongings,  is 
a  disgrace  to  your  manhood. 

I  suppose  the  thought  has  never  occurred  to  you 
that  you  owe  something  to  your  father  for  what  he  has 
done  for  you.  He  gave  you  position.  His  name 
shielded  you  through  all  your  childhood  and  youth 
from  many  of  the  dangers  and  disadvantages  which 
other  yoimg  men  are  forced  to  encounter.  He  gave 
you  great  vantage  ground  in  the  work  of  life,  and  yon 
owe  it  to  him  to  improve  it.  If  your  name  helps  you, 
you  ought  to  do  something  for  your  name.  If  your 
father  honors  you,  you  ought  to  honor  him,  and  to  do 
as  much  for  his  name  as  he  has  done  for  yours.  You 
have  no  moral  right  to  disgrace  one  who  has  done  so 
much  for  you ;  for  his  reputation  is  partly  in  your 
keeping.  It  would  be  an  everlasting  disgrace  to  him 
to  bring  up  a  boy  w^ho  relied  solely  upon  his  father  for 
respectability.  It  would  be  a  blot  upon  his  reputation 
to  have  a  son  so  mean  as  to  be  content  with  a  name 
and  fortune  at  second  hand.  I  tell  you,  sir,  that  you 
must  change  your  plan  and  course  of  life,  or  people  will 
talk  more  and  more  of  your  unworthiness  to  stand  in 


To  Goodrich  Jones,  Jr.  341 

your  father's  shoes,  and  express  their  wonder  more  and 
more  that  so  sensible  and  industrious  a  father  could 
train  a  son  so  inefficiently  as  he  has  trained  you. 
When  this  good  father  of  yours  shall  die,  you  will  be 
thrown  more  upon  yourself.  You  will  have  money,  I 
presume,  and  you  will  still  sit  in  the  comfortable 
shadow  of  your  father's  name  ;  but  the  world  changes, 
and  strangers  Avill  estimate  you  at  your  true  value,  and 
those  who  knew  your  father  will  only  talk  of  the  sad 
contrast  between  his  character  and  your  ovm. 

I  suppose  you  are  not  above  the  desire  for  the  good 
will  of  the  world.  Well,  the  world  is  made  up  of 
workers.  The  great  masses  of  men — and  your  father 
is  among  the  number — are  obliged  to  depend  upon 
their  own  labor  and  their  own  force  and  excel- 
lence of  character  for  wealth  and  position.  People  do 
not  envy  him,  because  he  won  all  that  he  possesses  by 
his  own  skill  and  industry.  He  is  universally  admired 
and  esteemed,  and  you  are  enjoying  some  of  the  fruits 
of  this  admiration  and  esteem  in  the  politeness  of  the 
world  toward  yourself ;  but  this  will  not  always  last. 
You  must  mingle  in  the  world's  work,  and  cast  in  your 
lot  with  your  fellows,  contributing  your  share  of  labor, 
and  taking  what  comes  of  it  in  pelf  and  position,  or 
else  you  will  be  voted  out  of  the  pale  of  popular  sym- 
pathy. The  world  does  not  love  drones,  and  you  must 
cease  to  be  a  drone  or  it  will  never  love  you. 


342  Letters  to  the  Joneies. 


I  suppose  it  is  hard  for  you  to  realize  that  you  are 
not  the  object  of  envy  among  men,  but  I  wish  you 
could  for  once  feel  the  contempt  which  your  parasitic 
position  excites  even  among  men  whom  you  deem 
beneath  your  notice.  There  are  many  young  men  who 
have  been  compelled  to  labor  all  their  lives  for  bread, 
that  would  shrink  from  exchanging  places  with  you  aa 
from  a  loathsome  disgrace.  They  would  not  take  your 
idle  habits,  your  foppish  tastes,  your  childish  spirit, 
and  your  reputation,  for  all  your  father's  money  ;  and 
these  men,  strange  as  it  may  seem  to  your  mean  spirit, 
are  moi'e  resj^ected  and  better  loved  by  the  world  than 
yourself.  I  say  that  you  are  not  above  the  desire  for 
the  good  Avill  of  the  world ;  but,  if  you  would  get  it, 
you  must  be  a  man.  You  must  show  that  you  have  a 
man's  spirit,  and  that  you  are  willing  to  do  a  man's 
work.  No  idle  man  ever  yet  lived  upon  the  wealth 
won  for  him  by  others  and  at  the  same  time  enjoyed 
the  love  of  the  world. 

All  this  you  will  find  out  by-and-by  without  my 
telling  you,  but  then  it  may  be  too  late  for  remedy. 
You  are  now  young,  but,  if  you  live,  you  will  come  at 
length  to  realize  that  instead  of  being  envied,  you  are 
despised.  You  will  make  a  sadder  discovery,  too, 
than  this.  You  will  discover  that  you  have  as  little 
basis  for  self-respect  as  for  popular  regard.  Years 
cannot  fail  to  reveal  to  you  some  things  which  youth 


To  Goodrich  Jones,  Jr. 


343 


hides  from  you.  You  will  find  that  the  world  is  busy", 
that  you  have  no  one  to  spend  your  time  with,  and 
that  the  men  who  have  power  and  public  consideration 
are  men  who  have  something  to  do  besides  killing  time 
and  spending  money.  You  will  find  that  you  are  with- 
out sympathy  and  companionship  among  the  best 
people,  and  when  you  ascertain  the  reason — for  it  will 
be  80  obvious  that  you  will  not  fiiil  to  see  it — you  will 
learn  that  you  are  not  worthy  of  their  sympathy  and 
companionship.  In  short,  you  will  learn  to  despise 
yourself. 

I  have  already  spoken  to  you  of  the  debt  which 
3'ou  owe  to  your  father,  for  what  he  has  done  for  you. 
There  are  some  further  considerations  relating  to  your 
family  which  I  wish  to  oflTer,  A  family  name  and  repu- 
tation are  things  of  life  and  growth.  The  character 
which  your  father  has  made  is  a  product  of  life,  so 
grand  and  far-spreading  that  his  family  sits  beneath, 
and  is  sheltered  by  it.  It  is  the  law  of  all  vital  prod- 
ucts that  they  shall  grow,  or  hold  their  ground  against 
encroachment,  by  what  they  feed  upon.  Food  must 
be  constant,  or  death  is  sure  to  come,  soon  or  late. 
The  character  of  your  family — its  power,  position  and 
high  relations — is  the  product  of  your  father's  vital 
force,  working  in  various  ways.  Not  many  years 
hence,  that  force  must  stop  its  work.  Your  father  will 
die,  and  unless  you  take  up  his  work  and  do  it,  tliLs 


L 


344  Letters  to  the  Jonefes. 


family  character  will  pine,  and  dwindle,  and  ultimately 
sink  in  utter  decay. 

Look  around  you  and  see  how  some  of  the  rich  and 
influential  old  families  have  died  out,  because  there  was 
no  man  in  them  to  keep  them  alive.  The  founder  of 
the  family  did  what  he  could,  raised  his  family  to  the 
highest  social  position,  gave  them  wealth,  bequeathed 
to  them  a  good  name,  and  died.  The  sons  who  fol- 
lowed were  not  worthy  of  him.  They  were  not  men. 
They  were  babies,  who  were  willing  to  live  upon  their 
family  name,  and  who  did  live  upon  it  until  they  con- 
sumed it.  It  is  sad  to  see  a  family  name  fade  out  as  it 
often  does,  through  the  failure  of  its  men  to  feed  it 
with  the  blood  of  a  worthy  life ;  and  yours  will  fade  out 
in  a  single  generation,  if  you  do  not  immediately  pre- 
pare yourself  to  take  up  your  father's  work,  and  carry 
it  on.  It  is  always  pleasant  and  inspiring  to  see  young 
men  who  expect  to  inhei-it  money  entering  with  energy 
upon  the  work  of  life,  as  if  they  had  their  fortunes  to 
make.  It  proves  that  they  are  men,  and  proves  that 
they  are  preparing  to  handle  usefully  the  money  that  is 
to  come  into  their  hands.  It  proves  that  they  intend 
to  win  respect  for  themselves,  and  to  lay  at  least  the 
foundation  of  their  own  fortunes.  "When  I  see  such 
men,  I  feel  that  the  name  of  their  families  is  safe  in 
their  keeping,  and  that,  for  at  least  one  generation, 
those  families  cannot  sink.      The  desire  to  be  some- 


To  Goodrich  Jones,  Jr.  345 

body  beside  somebody's  son,  shows  a  manly  dispo- 
sition, which  the  world  at  once  recognizes,  and  to 
which  it  freely  opens  its  heart. 

I  am  aware  that  a  young  man  in  your  position  has 
great  temptations,  and  labors  under  great  disadvan- 
tages. We  are  in  the  habit  of  regarding  a  poor  young 
man,  who  has  neither  family  name  nor  influence,  as 
laboring  under  disadvantages,  and  in  some  aspects  of 
his  case,  we  regard  him  rightly.  But  he  has  certainly 
the  advantage  of  the  stimulus  which  obstacles  to  be 
overcome  aiFord.  The  poor  man  sees  that  he  must 
make  his  ovm  fortune,  or  that  his  fortune  will  not  be 
made  at  all ;  and  the  obstacles  that  lie  before  liim  only 
stimulate  him  to  labor  with  the  greater  efliciency. 
"When  I  see  a  poor  young  man  bravely  accepting  his 
lot,  and  patiently  and  heroically  applying  himself  to 
the  work  of  building  a  fortune  and  achieving  a  posi- 
tion, I  am  moved  to  thank  God  for  his  poverty,  for  I 
know  that  in  that  poverty  he  will  ultimately  discover 
the  secret  of  his  best  successes. 

Your  disadvantage  is  that  position  and  wealth  have 
already  been  won  for  you.  It  is  not  necessary  for  you 
to  labor  to  get  bread  and  clothing  and  a  comfortable 
home.  These  have  already  been  won  for  you  by  other 
hands.  I  do  not  deny  that  this  condition  of  things 
is  naturally  enervating.  I  confess  that  it  takes  much 
good  sense  and  an  unusual  degree  of  manliness  to  resist 

15* 


346  Letters  to  the  Jonefes. 


the  temptations  to  idleness  which  it  brings ;  but  you 
must  resist  them  or  suffer  the  saddest  consequences. 
You  must  labor  in  a  steady,  manly  way  to  make  your 
own  place  in  the  woi'ld,  as  a  fitting  preparation  for  the 
husbandry  and  enjoyment  of  the  wealth  which  will 
some  day  be  yours.  If  you  have  not  those  considera- 
tions in  your  favor  which  stimulate  the  poor  man  to 
exertion,  then  you  must  adopt  those  which  I  have  tried 
to  present  to  you.  You  must  remember  'that  to  be 
content  with  a  position  received  at  second  hand,  and 
to  live  simply  to  spend  the  money  earned  by  others, 
is  most  unmanly.  You  must  remember  that  you  owe 
it  to  your  father  and  to  your  family  name  and  fame, 
to  keep  your  family  in  the  position  of  consideration  and 
influence  in  which  he  has  placed  it,  and  that  it  is  cer- 
tain to  recede  from  that  position  unless  you  do.  You 
must  remember  that  only  by  work  can  you  win  the 
good  will  of  the  world  around  you,  or  win  and  retain 
respect  for  yoiirself. 

If  the  disadvantages  of  your  position  are  great, 
your  reward  for  worthy  work  is  also  great.  The 
world  always  recognizes  the  strength  of  the  tempta- 
tions which  attach  to  the  position  of  a  rich  young  man, 
and  awards  to  him  a  peculiar  honor  for  that  spirit  which 
refuses  to  be  respected  for  anything  but  his  own  manli- 
ness. I  know  of  no  young  men  who  hold  the  good 
wUl  of  the  public  more  thoroughly  than  those  who  set 


To  Goodrich  Jones,  Jr.  347 

aside  all  the  temptations  to  indolence  and  indulgence 
which  attend  wealth,  and  put  themselves  heartily  to  the 
work  of  deserving  the  social  position  to  which  they 
are  bom,  and  of  earning  the  bread  which  a  father's 
wealth  has  already  secured.  You  have  but  to  will  and 
to  work,  nnd  this  beautiful  reward  will  be  yours. 


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